


Contractual Obligations: A Love Story in Three Traffic Lights

by shaenie



Series: Contractual Obligations [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaenie/pseuds/shaenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way Neal says it, though, amused and dismissive, is almost insulting. <i>Of course</i> Peter would never do such a thing, Neal's tone implies. <i>Absurd notion.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Contractual Obligations: A Love Story in Three Traffic Lights

They're on their way back to headquarters from the interview with Gina Malone, and Peter is still thinking about the little wink and blown-kiss she'd thrown in his direction as she'd shown them the door. He's still pretty sure she's got the information on MacGuinn that they want, and is turning policies, procedures, and possibilities carefully around in his head, inspecting them from every angle.

They're halfway there when Neal says (just as Peter has decided he's going to let it go without comment), "So. That was unexpected."

Peter resists the urge to smirk. "Statistically, not really," he says, offhand.

"Huh?" Neal says, and Peter is pleased to be able to interpret that as a sound of genuine uncertainty. Neal is almost never reduced to inarticulate monosyllables.

"It would have been more useful if she had hit on you, I'll grant you," Peter says, amused. "But statistically, someone, sooner or later, was going to pick me over you."

"That's not what I meant," Neal objects, eyebrows high with indignation.

Peter glances over at Neal in the passenger seat and smirks. Of the two of them, Peter is almost never the one that gets to employ the amused, slightly condescending smirk. He gives himself a tick mark on the scorecard of the ongoing battle to surprise Neal Caffrey. He's willing to bet Neal has his own mental scorecard, but he's not asking.

Peter enjoys this game far more than is probably good for him.

"Wait, you think I'd..." Neal sounds like he's stuck somewhere between offended and amused.

Peter shrugs. He knows Neal would absolutely screw around with Gina Malone for information, if it suited his purpose. Neal will do whatever it takes. It's simultaneously his best trait and his worst flaw.

"I'm flattered," Neal says dryly; he steals Peter's coffee out of the cup holder, takes a sip, puts it back. "It's a shame that's not an option for you."

And Peter hadn't been considering it as an option. Not really, anyway, though it had been one of the things he'd been inspecting in his head from various angles. But it hadn't been serious consideration. The way Neal says it, though, amused and dismissive, is almost insulting. _Of course_ Peter would never do such a thing, Neal's tone implies. _Absurd notion._ Peter is annoyed at Neal's presumption (though Neal is presumptuous all the time, and Peter knows it, and it rarely bothers him).

"I'd need to talk to Elizabeth," Peter says easily, almost purely to goad Neal into that expression of uncomprehending surprise, eyebrows a little scrunched together with it. Tick mark. Peter doesn't smile, but it's close. Being unpredictable, he rationalizes, is a good thing.

"Oh," Neal says, eyes narrowed. "Oh, you do not."

"Do not what?" Peter asks, throwing a look over at Neal in casual inquiry.

"You and Elizabeth do not have an... that kind of relationship." Neal flicks his fingers dismissively.

Peter thinks it must be nice to be that sure that you're right all the time, but he merely takes a swallow of his coffee without commenting, and lets the matter drop.

Neal doesn't mention it again.

Peter sees him _almost_ ask a bunch of different times. When Gina Malone comes in to give a statement. On the flight to Bolivia (which would have been pure misery, Peter is sure, if Neal hadn't somehow flirted the booking attendant into upgrading them both to First Class) once he's got a couple of glasses of wine in him, and is stealing looks at Peter across the tiny little table between them whenever he thinks Peter isn't paying attention. Then _in_ Bolivia, right after they load MacGuinn into an ambulance under armed escort, both of them still filthy and shaken from being under fire, and Neal doesn't seem to be able to stop touching Peter, just on the arm, nothing big, but _all the time_, like he's just making sure Peter is still there.

Peter is almost sure Neal will mention it following the after-incident debriefing, on which Hughes spends an inordinate amount of time. Hughes is randomly bitching (completely after the fact, when it can't possibly do anybody any good to bitch about it) about the cost, both in time and money, of obtaining a passport for a convicted felon, and then flying Peter and said felon to Bolivia. Peter now hates Bolivia, which he'd been previously ambivalent about, and spends the whole meeting wanting to say: "You know the email you've gotten three times a week for the past two years, the one that claims you've inherited some money and all you have to do to claim it is send in your personal information and put down a small deposit, you know the one that has scammed thousands of people, if not more, out of a lot of money, you know _that_ one? I JUST ARRESTED THAT GUY!" Peter and Neal spend the whole meeting exchanging looks every few minutes, saying "Can you believe this?" and "I know, seriously?" with their eyebrows.

Peter shows up at Neal's place with beer and the makings for nachos about a week after Bolivia, for no reason other than to give Neal the chance to mention the Gina Malone thing.

Of course, Neal doesn't.

So Peter doesn't exactly stop waiting for it, but he stops looking for moments in which Neal will probably ask.

Peter and Elizabeth have Neal over to dinner four times. The fourth time, Peter decides to barbeque, Neal puts aside his hat in favor of Elizabeth's _Don't Make Me Poison Your Food_ apron, and Elizabeth bogarts the grill and only lets Peter and Neal make the salad. Peter tells Neal this is business as usual, and Neal assures him that he's hurt and insulted on Peter's behalf. Elizabeth makes an inappropriate gesture.

Peter forgets to call home twice when the two of them are working late, and Neal catches it both times. Peter buys Neal a case of Tsing Tsao imported from Hong Kong, and Neal sends Elizabeth a bottle of Eiswein imported from Germany.

Peter and Elizabeth are invited to Neal's for dinner, and Peter discovers that Neal makes the best duck he has ever put in his mouth, and he was already crazy about duck. Neal brings the leftovers for Peter to eat for lunch at work the next day. He also brings two linen napkins and mocks Peter's greasy fingers about every forty-three seconds.

Peter has lunch with Neal every weekday except Tuesdays and Thursdays, when he has lunch with Neal _and_ Elizabeth. One Tuesday Neal forgets his wallet, pisses both of them off thoroughly by refusing to order something and letting them pay, and then proceeds to eat liberally from both of their plates until they forgive him.

Peter gets called in to work at three in the morning because the Organized Crime Division needs his eyes on something. He picks Neal up, notes that Neal looks as slick and put together at three in the morning as he always does, and doesn't realize until Agent Timmins asks, "Did Ruis ask for Caffrey?" that Neal hadn't even been mentioned. Neal arches his eyebrows expressively, and Peter dismisses Timmins' question with a gruff, "He's with me."

Peter goes with Organized Crime when they pull a raid that same day. He and Neal have a heated whisper-fight in the hall after Peter declares that Neal has to go home, and Neal only goes at all because Peter calls Elizabeth and makes her call Neal. Neal's half of the conversation is all disgruntled monosyllables and his eyebrows are furious, but he leaves.

Peter gets home before five that evening, feeling likes he's been at work for roughly twelve years, and Neal and Elizabeth are sitting on the floor in front of the couch drinking wine out of coffee cups. They are both a little bit drunk. "Why coffee cups?" is all he can think to say, and they both grin guiltily at him. Elizabeth claims that _Neal_ claims that it doesn't count out of coffee cups, and Neal clutches at his chest and announces _"'My two schoolfellows, whom I will trust as I will adders fanged!!_'" with aggrieved dramatics. Neal isn't wearing his jacket, and has his shirtsleeves folded up to the tops of his forearms. Peter grabs a coffee cup and plays catch-up while Elizabeth and Neal talk about _Hamlet_.

Peter and Neal go talk with a guy about forged insurance checks, and Peter later has a very loud argument with Hughes about the incident report he has to fill out for breaking the guy's wrist. Hughes, who is normally a decent boss, is seriously not happy, and keeps insisting that Peter was out of line, that Neal is a contractor and all contractors know the risks. Peter ends up losing his temper and shouting that 'contractor' is not synonymous with 'expendable,' damnit, and Hughes makes him take the rest of the day off. Neal is waiting in Peter's office with their coats, two fresh cups of coffee, and a Snickers bar. He gives Peter the Snickers silently, his face tipped far enough to the side that Peter can't see the bruising along his eye socket and cheekbone.

Peter spends a day attending briefings and meetings. There is a small but crucial difference between briefings and meetings, which is that briefings include some of Peter's bosses, and meetings include nothing _but_ Peter's bosses. Days that are eaten up by briefings and meetings are days that Peter doesn't get to do any of the interesting work, which makes him cranky.

Contributing to his crankiness is the fact that Neal had only had to attend one briefing. He's only allowed to sit in if the subject matter pertains directly to a case, and Neal gets cranky when Peter goes to briefings and meetings that he doesn't get to go to, and Neal being cranky makes Peter cranky. It's a cranky-vicious circle.

Peter is pretty sure that during the one briefing he _had_ attended, Neal had been playing pong on his Blackberry, purely for the retaliation-factor, because he was nowhere near as entertaining as Neal usually is during briefings. So Neal had spent the day screwing around in Peter's office and annoying Cruz, who is in the enviable position of being able to pick and choose her briefings.

Peter is starving, though Neal had brought him lunch post-briefings but pre-meetings, and then an apple and a bottle of sparkling water in the two minute break between meeting three and meeting four. Peter doesn't like sparkling water, but he drinks it anyway. And the apple is perfect.

Peter drives them home, as usual, wondering idly what's for dinner. It's their takeout night, and it's Elizabeth's turn to pick. It's probably Chinese, but it could be Thai. Elizabeth likes both equally. Peter likes Greek. Neal likes Indian, not that that's pertinent. As they pull out of the FBI's multi-story parking facility and Peter eases his way into traffic, Neal tilts his head toward Peter without looking at him, and asks, "Did you actually sleep with Gina Malone for that tip?"

It has been ten weeks since the original conversation.

"Text Elizabeth, will you?" Peter says. "Ask her if we have beer."

Neal shoots a glance at him, but just pulls out his Blackberry and texts.

When Neal finishes typing, Peter says, "Yeah, I slept with Gina Malone." He doesn't tack on 'for that tip' because he understands the fine line between admitting _some_thing and admitting _every_thing. Elizabeth can't be compelled to testify against Peter, but Neal will never have that advantage.

Neal looks at him sideways, chin tipping slightly upward in what may or may not be exactly one half of a nod.

They stop at a traffic light. Peter turns and looks at Neal, forcing Neal to turn and look back. Peter arches an eyebrow. Neal frowns at him, his eyebrows scrunching grumpily. "You would never cheat on Elizabeth," he says.

The light turns green, and Peter has to look away, but he doesn't hesitate. "There are exemption situations," he says mildly.

He doesn't elucidate, but that's okay because Neal is already repeating, "Exemption situations?" with baffled disbelief. "_Exemptions?_"

"Yeah," Peter agrees.

"Like, exemptions on your _taxes_?"

Peter glances over long enough to be sure that Neal gets a good look at the eyerolling Peter is doing.

Neal huffs out something that's not quite laughter. "What could 'exemption situations' even be?"

Peter shrugs with one shoulder, and steals Neal's coffee out of the cup holder and takes a swallow. Neal intercepts the coffee before Peter can get it all the way back to the cup holder, and tugs the cup away. "You know, it varies," Peter says. "The freebies are things like, to save a life, or if I genuinely think I'm going to die."

Neal regards him seriously from the passenger seat, so Peter adds, "But there are also ones like, if I somehow find myself confronted by Milla Jovovich." Neal chokes a sound of amusement into his coffee cup, and Peter shoots him a grin. "Also, never say never."

"Never say never." Peter glances at him; Neal looks back blandly. Only the arch of his eyebrows indicates that it's a question, not a statement.

"It's an Elizabeth thing," Peter admits. "She says that I have a bad habit of starting out actively antagonistic toward people I later want to take to bed. I met her in college, and we were both in debate. So." He shrugs. "She's not wrong."

Neal's Blackberry whistles like a tea kettle.

"It's Elizabeth," Neal says. "She says to bring home wine."

They drive in silence for a little less than a minute, and then stop at another traffic light. When Peter looks over at Neal, he's already looking back. "Elizabeth asked if you wanted to come home with me, Neal," he says, carefully meeting Neal's eyes.

Neal doesn't blink. "Do I have to decide right now?"

"You don't ever have to decide," Peter tells him.

The light turns green. Peter drives, eyes front and center.

The silence lasts a minute and a half. In four blocks, Peter will have to turn left to head toward Neal's place, or continue on straight to get to someplace where he can double back and head uptown. There's one more traffic light between here and there.

"So." Neal says. "So those are just the exceptions, right? There have to be," he makes an odd gesture, a sweeping, gathering up, and holding motion with his right hand, "rules and clauses and stipulations, I'm guessing. Because I have to tell you, Peter, knowing nothing but the exemptions makes it sound a little bit fucked up."

Peter doesn't smile, but it's close. Neal only curses if he's invested. He's too deliberately charming to use profanity regularly. "Exemptions are for emergencies," Peter tells him. "When there isn't time to talk about it."

"Like Milla Jovovich?" Neal looks all smirk-y in that way he has. Even his eyebrows look smirk-y.

"Yeah, well. The exemptions are illustrative, but you don't get the big picture." Peter tips a look at Neal, and adds, "If you want the big picture, you have to listen to the whole story."

"Is there an index, for easy cross-referencing?" Neal inquires solemnly.

Peter snorts. "There's even a glossary."

Peter stops at the light, even though it's only yellow. The driver behind them lays on the horn. Peter fixes his gaze on the rearview long enough to memorize the make, model, color, and license plate automatically, and catches Neal doing the same. They otherwise ignore the horn.

Neal looks at Peter first, this time. Peter obligingly looks back. "So, you two have this, what? Negotiated? Like a contract?" Neal's eyebrows are slightly arched, gracefully dubious sweeps.

"Marriage _is_ a contract," Peter says, and Neal gives him a you-know-what-I-meant-you-asshole look. "No," Peter argues with Neal's eyebrows, "I mean _really._ All relationships are basically contractual. The basis for anything not familial (and sometimes even then) is mutual satisfaction of needs. _Our_ current relationship," Peter asserts, gesturing back and forth between them, "is based on the mutual satisfaction of needs. I need to solve cases, you need to not be in jail."

Neal scowls at him. Neal's eyebrows hate Peter. "Except that our 'current relationship' _is_ actually a contract! I had to sign that paperwork, too, you know."

"My relationship with Elizabeth isn't that different," Peter defends staunchly. "All relationships are contracts. You give one another what you can until someone breaks the contract and the relationship is over." Neal's mouth is starting to hate Peter, too, so Peter adds, "You should really let Elizabeth give you the speech; she's better at it. And she's already going to be pissed that I gave away her third bullet point."

Neal laughs out loud, Peter smiles, and the driver behind them lays on the horn again because the light is green.

Peter drives in silence, because he can't ask. His position is too fraught with consequences for both of them. At this point, only Neal can ask, really. Elizabeth has already done all the asking-by-proxy she can get away with.

Neal comes through, though. "What are the first two bullet points?"

Peter isn't surprised, he'd been counting on this, but it still takes him a moment to work up enough spit to answer. "The first one is 'We want you.' The second one is 'You want us.'"

Neal doesn't say anything. Peter puts his hand on the turn signal.

"She's going to be really pissed that you gave up the first two bullet points without a fight," Neal says dryly.

"Maybe," Peter hedges, and glances at Neal. His eyebrows are amused. Peter vindictively flips the turn signal on.

Neal immediately flips it off.

"Peter."

"Yeah?"

"Bring home wine."


	2. Three Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal would like to say something in response, or maybe even do a little dance, but he can't seem to do anything except let Peter pull him in for a kiss. It's slow but inevitable, like Peter is giving him time to avoid it while simultaneously having no intention of letting any avoidance happen. Neal doesn't resist at all, and will admit, in the privacy of his own head, that he probably wouldn't have resisted if Peter had tried to kiss him the first time they really met, while Peter was reading him his rights and two other agents were sitting on Neal.

Peter goes into the house first. As he crosses the threshold Neal feels the things he always feels right before a big score: anticipation; excitement; arousal; fear. He follows Peter, Peter steps aside almost immediately, and Neal sees Elizabeth. All the things he feels right before a big score evaporate instantly at the sight of Elizabeth's face.

Her expressions are shutter-click fast, but Neal's business doesn't allow for missing the details. Fear, relief, anger. Neal takes three steps into the room, and says, "It was my fault." Elizabeth throws a glance at Peter, then fixes her gaze on Neal again.

"Explain," she says.

"We should've let you know. We shouldn't have left you waiting without knowing. I was totally preoccupied, and I spent most of the car ride trying to decide if there was some way I could be misunderstanding the topic completely, and maybe we'd show up and it was just _dinner_, and I would be..." He makes a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I didn't think."

Elizabeth looks at Peter. Neal follows her gaze. Peter doesn't look like he's freaking out; he looks solemn and a little resigned. Neal is willing to bet this not a deal-breaker. He'd see it on Peter's face if it was, though he's less sure whether or not he'd see it on Elizabeth's. But Peter clearly feels guilty about it anyway. Which he should, of course. They both should, to leave her for nearly an hour without knowing what was happening.

"The delivery was... a little rocky," Peter says, and swipes a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure why he even said yes, considering how I mangled it. I changed the subject to work as soon as I had procured his agreement." Peter admits it like he's confessing a sin. "It didn't even cross my mind, El. I'm an asshole."

Neal kind of wants to chuckle at the way Peter says 'procured his agreement,' like Neal's agreement was along the same lines as an offer of immunity, but recognizes that this would not be a good time.

Elizabeth, in spite of Peter's sentiment, looks wholly satisfied with this answer. "So, you both panicked, and pretended all the way home that the awkward threesome conversation didn't happen," she says. It is definitely not a question.

Peter looks like he'd like to object, so Neal quickly inserts, "Yeah. Pretty much."

"Okay," Elizabeth says, and straightens deliberately. "We're going to pretend that didn't happen. You both get a pass due to the degree of weird I know we're all feeling here."

Peter brightens visibly, and Neal relaxes.

Then there is a very confused moment when he realizes that Elizabeth is heading toward him very fast, and he sees Peter take a sideways step out of the corner of his eye, and then Elizabeth body-checks him and he stumbles back into Peter's chest. Neal has less than a second to process that Peter had anticipated it, and if he hadn't moved, Neal would have probably stumbled backward and fallen onto his ass on the sidewalk outside with Elizabeth on top of him.

Then Elizabeth's hot mouth, already open, bumps into his, and Neal decides they must be forgiven and kisses her back. Elizabeth winds her fingers into his hair, and Peter's chest is solid and warm against his back, and Neal snakes an arm around Elizabeth's waist and aligns their bodies like confluent mosaic tiles. Elizabeth gives him a little moan in reward, and the whole thing goes from hotly amusing to just plain hot, and Neal dips his tongue into her mouth and discovers she tastes sweet and tart, like wine and candy. He hums, pleased, and her hips twist sweetly. He pushes a hand into her hair, which is thick and sleek, and her mouth is quick and greedy.

Peter murmurs, "Neal," into his ear, and Neal's breath hitches in his chest, even though he recognizes it as Peter's 'I have important information for you' voice and not his... well, something else voice. Neal doesn't exactly know what Peter's 'something else' voice sounds like, but he suspects it will be improbably hot. Neal licks along Elizabeth's lower lip before he slowly disengages from the kiss and turns to look over his shoulder at Peter. "We're standing in the open front door," Peter points out gently.

Elizabeth laughs brightly at the same time that she twists her hips wickedly, and then she steps back before Neal can decide to either let her go or hold her. She grins at him. Neal is starting to suspect that Elizabeth isn't going to give him the chance to decide much. His only consolation is that he already knows he'll be sharing that boat with Peter. Maybe they can stage a coup.

Neal steps clear of the entryway and Peter closes the door.

"Oh, honey, you were right," Elizabeth says. "His eyebrows are pouting!"

"His eyebrows are always pouting," Peter says. "Or flirting."

"My eyebrows?" Neal asks, perplexed.

"Peter has a thing," Elizabeth grins. She flicks the brim of Neal's hat, knocking it right off his head. Neal could stop her, but he feels morally obligated to allow anything that might be a precursor to Elizabeth undressing him. She catches it neatly, flips it by the brim as expertly as a stage magician, and perches it atop her own head at a jaunty angle. It's utterly adorable. "Peter has lots of things; Peter fixates."

"On eyebrows?" Neal looks at Peter, deliberately quirking an eyebrow.

Peter smiles. It's a smaller, more intimate version of the smile he usually gives Neal, but it's otherwise exactly the same smile. It effectively dispels the jangle of uncertain nerves in Neal's belly. There are still nerves, but the ones left are the good kind.

"Not eyebrows in general," Peter clarifies. "Just yours."

Neal smiles, delighted. Peter takes a step toward him, and Neal turns to meet him. He wants to know if he and Peter will align as easily as he had with Elizabeth. They have to. If they don't, Neal will _make_ them, somehow.

Elizabeth snaps twice, in the foot of space between Peter and Neal. It echoes in the enclosed space of the living room.

"Dinner, first," Elizabeth says firmly. "I picked up-"

"Chinese," Peter and Neal both finish.

Neal looks at Peter.

"I can smell it," Peter says, and shrugs.

"Ah," Neal says. Elizabeth arches her eyebrows at him. "I extrapolated," Neal tells her.

"Based on what?" Peter wants to know.

Elizabeth raises her eyes momentarily heavenward, but makes a 'go on' gesture.

"It took us fifty-one minutes to get here." Neal's a little embarrassed, now, but that nearly never stops him. "Friday is your office day, so you work until around the same time that we do and then you have to drive home. You like Thai better, but the closest good Thai place is downtown, and Chinese is your acceptable substitute food. There is a very good Chinese place about twelve blocks from here, and it's on your way home."

"There's a Thai place closer than downtown," Peter objects.

"It's not good," Elizabeth says, at the same time Neal says, "She doesn't like it."

"El, I've brought you food from there before!" Peter sounds deeply wounded.

Elizabeth doesn't say anything, though she does look faintly guilty. It's hilarious, because she's still wearing Neal's hat.

"You guys have to tell me this stuff," Peter sighs. "I am going to lose at this relationship, I can tell."

"No you're not," Neal and Elizabeth both say.

Peter gives them a look that might be doubtful, except he's also looking hopefully at them.

"I can smell it," Neal tells him.

"I can extrapolate based on ten years of marriage," Elizabeth adds, and catches Peter's chin so she can plant a soft kiss on his mouth. "So," she says, while Neal is still distracted by the way Peter's lower lip is a little shiny. "Dinner and discussion. Then dessert."

"My eyebrows want to renegotiate the proposed timetable," Neal tells her, making an effort to make his eyebrows look serious.

She returns his serious look with one of her own. "The court remains unaffected by your argument."

"The eyebrows don't do it for you?" Neal tries really hard not to pout. _Really_ hard.

Elizabeth smirks. "Sorry, Neal," she lies goodnaturedly. "Your face just isn't going to convince me."

In Neal's head, he says something witty and self-deprecating, she laughs, he says something witty and flirty, she smiles, he says something witty and wicked into her ear, and she relents.

In reality, he opens his mouth for witty and self-deprecating, and feels Peter tugging at his jacket. Since he feels morally obligated to allow anything that might be a precursor to Peter undressing him, Neal shrugs it off helpfully. "She's really an ass-man," Peter says, witty and filthy in Neal's ear, and in a move so smooth that he briefly but genuinely entertains the idea that Peter might be possessed, Peter cups Neal's shoulders and pivots him neatly so that his wife can slap Neal on the ass.

It isn't a tap, either. It's hard enough that Neal takes a startled step forward and ends up nearly standing on Peter's toes.

"I can't even believe that that just happened," Neal says conversationally, to the room at large.

He is acutely aware of how close he and Peter are standing, and how much effort the two of them are both putting into not stepping away. It's just that Neal is used to staying out of Peter's space. He's been doing it all along. It feels weird not to be doing it, and Peter is so tense Neal is certain it's mutual.

"And this is the PG rated portion of the evening," Elizabeth says, but it's low and soothing. She catches Neal's hand, and when he looks down, he sees that she has Peter's hand, too. "It's going to be okay. I promise." She presses their hands together. Neal isn't sure which of them turns or grasps or whatever the vital element is to hand-holding, but whatever it is happens.

Neal and Peter are holding hands.

Neal looks at Peter, but Peter is looking at their hands. Neal looks at Elizabeth, but she is looking at Peter. Her face is all warm certainty, as though she has absolute faith that Peter will come through and do whatever it is she thinks he should do in this situation. Neal has no idea what that is, but it hurts him a little. He isn't sure he can even be someone that deserves to have Elizabeth look at him like that, and if he's not, then he shouldn't even be here.

"Peter," he says, and the calm weight of Peter's gaze is difficult. Neal would like to make a joke, he would really like to play this off as something less serious than it is, even if it doesn't do anything but calm his own nerves. Peter's hand is warm and dry and bigger than Neal's. His thumb sweeps across the backs of Neal's knuckles.

"Tell me," Peter says, as though the fact that there's something to tell is an inevitability.

Neal could lay it out. He's thought about it, how it would be to lay out the steps of the long con for Peter and Elizabeth, to explain to them both the ways in which you have to believe your own lies, and the fine line between believing them enough for others to believe them and believing them enough to destroy yourself. How long it takes to recover yourself, after. He could break down his fear into its component pieces, and he will, maybe. Later. Instead he goes with the big things. For perspective.

"I could ruin your life," he says. "Both of your lives. I could destroy your career. You could go to prison. Peter, I could do all that _by accident_, just saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, to the wrong person. And I have a past that isn't always in the past, you _know_ that. Those are just the big ones." Peter is still looking at him like he's just waiting for Neal to run out of steam, which Neal abruptly does. "Are you sure?" he blurts plaintively. "Peter, are you _sure_."

Peter drags their hands up to his mouth and plants a kiss on Neal's knuckles. It's a very Peter kiss, steady and no-nonsense. It's unexpected and astonishing. Neal's mouth drops open a little.

"We're sure," Peter says at the same time Elizabeth says, "We trust you."

Neal would like to say something in response, or maybe even do a little dance, but he can't seem to do anything except let Peter pull him in for a kiss. It's slow but inevitable, like Peter is giving him time to avoid it while simultaneously having no intention of letting any avoidance happen. Neal doesn't resist at all, and will admit, in the privacy of his own head, that he probably wouldn't have resisted if Peter had tried to kiss him the first time they really met, while Peter was reading him his rights and two other agents were sitting on Neal.

Peter's lips are soft and warm and more sweet reassurance than anything else. He smells like fabric softener and faintly of Elizabeth's perfume. Peter's not a cologne guy, which Neal had known, not a guy that wants to smell good from far away, inviting other people to get in his space. Peter is still holding Neal's hand, and three fingertips of his other hand are lightly resting on Neal's neck. The side of his thumb is wreaking havoc on the underside of Neal's jaw.

All of the operating instructions Neal has been observing during their on-the-same-side-of-the-law professional relationship are abruptly invalid. Neal had understood, academically, that this would happen. Theoretically, he would have to set them aside. Hypothetically, he would do so easily, or at least in an outwardly calm manner.

In reality, he is fine, and Peter's warm and solid and Peter, and then Neal has the mental equivalent of a major seismic catastrophe.

Peter's mouth opens slightly, Neal tips his head a little to take advantage of it almost entirely automatically, and it occurs to him that all of the rules - 1) don't look at Peter enough to make him uncomfortable, 2) don't touch Peter, 3) don't invade Peter's space, 4) don't fix Peter's clothes, no matter how badly they need fixing, 5) don't get used to Peter liking you, 6) don't have expectations of Peter, 7) almost nearly never flirt with Peter, 8) etcetera to infinity - are rendered obsolete by this moment.

New rules. Eventually. But right now.

No rules.

A low, rough sound he hadn't even known he was capable of escapes his throat, and then he has both hands fisted in Peter's coat and is backing him up, he bites Peter's lower lip and there's the thump of something wooden bumping the wall, and something falls. Neal shoves at Peter, and kisses him, and Peter is pulling his hair a little and has one big hand firmly on Neal's ass, dragging Neal in close, and they are both twisting a little, seeking. Peter kicks Neal's feet a little apart and shoves his thigh into the space he's made, Neal shifts his hips and they snap into place like lockpins. Neal's head rocks back, Peter kisses hard and dirty, and Neal shoves his left hand under Peter's suit coat to slide his palm along the smooth, hard plane of Peter's back through his shirt. He jerks at Peter's tie with his other hand, and Peter rocks his hips and Neal's chest locks up, breathless, because he had had _no idea._ Peter licks the corner of Neal's mouth, and Neal doesn't even try to stop from moaning. He has vanquished Peter's tie and is attacking Peter's belt.

Peter says, "Jesus, Neal, Jesus," and Neal flings the belt away from them and slants his lips across Peter's roughly to shut him up before Neal _dies_ at the way he sounds from kissing Neal. Peter bites him, his tongue and then his lip, and Neal yanks the tails of Peter's shirt out of his pants. Peter's hips jerk and he makes a hitching sound against Neal's mouth, Neal can taste that sound, and then Neal has both of his hands up Peter's shirt and on his hot skin, and Peter makes a hungry, needy sound that is not a whine or a groan, but some kind of totally compelling hybrid noise that Neal gives back in a different octave.

It's the sound, Neal thinks, that actually stops them. Not the sound either of them makes, but the sound it makes when they both make it at once. Peter's mouth slides away with a slick noise, and they draw back without letting go, both of them arching their backs to put some space between their faces. Peter's mouth is flushed rosy, but his eyes are wide with surprise.

"When did this even happen," Peter breathes, not really a question as much as a very quiet exclamation.

Neal understands the scope of what Peter means, though, understands it in all the ways he has not allowed himself to ever really _think_ of it, but he can't craft a big enough explanation to do the not-a-question justice, so he says, "You were four minutes behind me in Winston-Salem."

"_The Burning Book_," Peter nods, his eyes pools of questions. "I knew I was close, but."

"Four minutes, and the closest anyone had ever come by _days_." Neal has never before, nor since, had to get out of any place as quickly as he'd had to leave the loft in Winston-Salem. The job had been a success, but only by the very slimmest of margins. "I was across the street, I broke into someone's apartment, over that bakery with the big cinnamon buns. I saw you come out of the loft." He does not add that he should have been moving, that he should not have stopped to get a good look at Peter live and in person. He's sure Peter knows that already. "You were yelling at everybody, and you leaned with your hands on your car and your head down, and I thought you were pissed off. I was working myself up to being really smug about it, too." Neal laughs shakily. "And then you looked up, and you were _laughing_. You were laughing like you were having the time of your life."

Peter tips his head back for a few seconds. Neal watches him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing. When he tips his face down again, his eyes are very bright, but he looks calm. "That was barely a year in," he says neutrally.

Neal shrugs. "That's where it started. I can give you the highlights reel, if you want it, but that's what it comes down to. Winston-Salem, with you laughing."

"I was twenty-six minutes behind you in DC," Peter says roughly. Neal jerks in shock, and Peter tightens his hold on Neal's hair and his ass, holding him still. "I timed it with hotel security cameras, later. But I was on the phone with the front desk of the Sofitel - not even a mile from the goddamned White House, Neal," Peter sounds both outraged and admiring, "- nine minutes after you checked out. I told them to hold your room, had the front desk girl call the manager. I promised I'd keep it quiet, no one would even know the FBI was there, but they had to give me that room. Then I called you in. Got agents from the field office to the airport, the train station, the bus depot." Peter's voice is flat and a little grim.

Neal had left the Sofitel in a stolen fire engine red Mercury Comet Caliente. It had been a beautiful car, a very distinctive car. If Peter's timeline is correct, there is no way Peter could not know that. The valet had pulled that car right out front for Neal. Neal had tipped him fifty dollars.

"I told the field office I'd take the room, and asked them to send over someone for physical evidence. I talked to the manager, the girl at the front desk, the valet." He meets Neal's eyes. "Then the room. Your towels were still damp. I took pictures. I did the first pass for prints. Someone else took the second pass, and swabbed your champagne flute for DNA, and that was enough to put you there, which was all I needed. I called in the report, I talked to my boss. There was no sign of you. I told the manager I wanted the room overnight, put in on my own credit card. Then I took it apart." Peter's hand flexes briefly in Neal's hair. Neal's mouth is so dry that death by dehydration seems like a real possibility.

Neal knows how Peter takes things apart. He'd known it then, roughly two years into the hide-and-seek game they'd been playing across the country, and occasionally out of it. He'd been to the loft after Peter had dismantled it. There hadn't been much in the loft, really, odd bits of furniture, the long, low table Neal had been using as a work space. Anything important had been long gone, but everything else was in pieces. Peter had disassembled some of the _rafters_. Neal had left fingerprints on some of them deliberately. Just to see. Peter had taken apart the ones without fingerprints. It was intuitive and meticulous. Neal had to stretch his creative muscles to stay ahead.

"You had to get a suite," Peter says, lips quirking faintly. "It took me a year to get everything back together, and I was wiped out and a little pissed off. I drank your flat champagne, and then I took a shower in that gigantic bathroom, with those big glass shower doors. And when it finally steamed up, there it was."

"I thought you didn't find it," Neal murmurs. There are other things that he won't ask about. Like an APB on the car Neal had been driving. Like if the video surveillance had ever made it into evidence. Like how far Peter had actually gone over the line. Neal wants to know, almost desperately, but he doesn't want to know enough to ask and find out if Peter will refuse to tell him.

"I found it," Peter tells him. "Then I dried off with your towel and slept in your sheets. I could smell you. That's not where it started. I can't tell you that for sure. It snuck up on me. But that was the first time I was close enough behind you that I had to make a decision."

"'Dear Peter, See you in Baton Rouge, Love, Neal,'" Elizabeth says.

Neal jerks, and feels Peter startle against him. There's a horrifying three or four seconds during which Neal realizes that he and Peter had both forgotten Elizabeth was even _there_, and that she's probably angry, maybe hurt, and she has every right to be, there is too much between them, between Peter and Neal, more than there should be and most of it really messed up. There's too much history, too much something, and he doesn't want to hurt Elizabeth for anything, he knows _Peter_ won't want...

"Before you go all guilty and brooding," Elizabeth says gently, "why don't you listen to the rest of it."

"I didn't know," Neal says hoarsely. It comes out pleading, and he doesn't try to pretend it isn't. "I didn't... understand." It's hard to admit, as Neal has never been anything but very, very smart, and he's starting to get the idea that he has maybe been very, very stupid about this. About Peter. About the game they have played for _years_.

"Oh, honey," Elizabeth murmurs, leaning into both of their sides, chin on Neal's shoulder. Her eyes are huge and dark and earnest. Peter's hand slides up from Neal's ass to his back, sweeping slow, soothing strokes into Neal's spine. "I know you didn't." Peter's other hand cradles the back of Neal's head, and tips his forehead into Peter's neck. He kisses the top of Neal's ear. "Peter didn't either, not for a long time. But I knew, Neal. I've known for years, and _it's okay_." Her voice is so soft it's almost a whisper, and Neal realizes she's trying not to spook him.

Neal pulls a little back from Peter, and Peter kisses him, a brief press of lips that is almost a peck, shorthand for something a lot more complicated. Then Peter lets him go completely, and Neal tugs Elizabeth in between them, her back to Peter's chest. They adjust to each other automatically while Neal watches, one of Peter's hands resting on the curve of Elizabeth's hip, Elizabeth leaning to rest her head against Peter's shoulder. They both reach for Neal, and Neal lets himself be drawn. He isn't quite sure how to fit, but they already seem to know, Elizabeth's arms over his shoulders, Peter's hand on Neal's waist.

Elizabeth between them is like no distance at all. She is not a buffer. It's just calmer. She is the reason in something that is more than a little unreasonable.

It isn't going to be Peter, whom Neal has been thinking of as the biggest point of commonality between Elizabeth and him. It isn't going to be like that, with the two of them circling Peter like he is the sun. It's going to be Elizabeth. She's going to teach it to them like it's a language, and Peter has already learned some of it, has been studying it with her for far longer than Neal is prepared to guess at right now. But Neal is a fast study. He can catch up.

Neal is so grateful that he hides his face in Elizabeth's hair. It smells faintly of ginger.

"When Peter came back from DC," Elizabeth murmurs into Neal's ear, "he fucked me on the front porch." Neal is a little shocked at the way the profanity from her mouth crashes into his ear, hot and sharp. "In broad daylight, with cars driving by, both of us fully dressed. He just lifted up my skirt and pushed my panties out of the way, he didn't even say anything first."

Neal's hips stutter restlessly, and Peter's hand slides easily back down to Neal's ass. Elizabeth's breasts are warm and soft against Neal's chest, and he wonders if they are actually going to try and finish this conversation under these conditions. Elizabeth's lips brush softly along the edge of Neal's ear, and he shivers fiercely. He feels her smile. "After, he said, 'Honey, I'm in trouble.'"

Neal pulls back to look at her, but her expression is matter-of-fact. And if that's true, then when Peter caught him, when Peter _caught him..._

"Don't ask that question yet," Peter says. His voice is tight, and for the first time he isn't looking at Neal. He's looking off to Neal's left, his chin tipped down, eyes in shadow.

"Peter," Neal says.

"This is why I wanted to have this conversation over dinner," Elizabeth says, aggrieved. But she looks fondly at Neal. "With _wine_. But you two." She shakes her head, and smiles a little sadly. "You can't do anything the easy way."

"Elizabeth," Neal says helplessly. She gives him an impatient look. Neal closes his mouth.

"So I called Peter's boss, off the record, and told him Peter was tired and frustrated, and I wanted to take him on vacation. He said it was a great idea, Peter was working too hard anyway, and had about thirty years of vacation saved up. He'd take care of the paperwork. Have a good time."

"And you went to Baton Rouge," Neal finishes, because it's the only thing that makes sense. It doesn't, it doesn't make sense at all, but it's what they did, a logical progression for them that Neal can't quite see yet.

"It's not that big a town," Peter says.

"Peter found you the first night," Elizabeth translates. "Before we even checked into the hotel. At a jazz bar on the LSU campus."

Neal remembers that bar, remembers that night. He feels feverish with mis-timed adrenaline, and there is nothing he can do with the rush of it. No matter how hard he searches his memory, he can't find Peter and Elizabeth in it.

"You were playing piano, and wearing a fedora," Elizabeth recounts. "You had an actual garter around your arm, and lipstick smeared across your mouth."

"One of the waitresses gave it to me," Neal says dazedly, without specifying lipstick or garter, as it hardly matters.

"I didn't know you could play the piano," Peter says a little wistfully.

"I asked him how old you were," Elizabeth says, and Peter laughs out loud.

"You said: 'Christ, Peter, is he even _legal_,'" Peter corrects, grinning, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and something crackles and recedes, and all three of them are grinning.

"My story," Elizabeth says, and bumps lightly back into Peter full-body. "Anyway, we stayed until you left with two girls in flapper dresses."

"Waitresses," Neal objects weakly.

"We were to the far left of the stage, behind the lights," Peter tells Neal, as though he knows it's driving him crazy. "Where you wouldn't be able to see us, even if you looked. The glare."

Neal nods. He understands that there are whole volumes of things that they aren't telling him, but he is also beginning to really grasp that they will tell him. He could ask, and they will. They're only leaving things out now for the sake of expediency, not because they don't want him to know. It feels like he's doing reconstruction on his own brain, shifting and reframing everything.

"And the next night, you were at a Blues bar not very far from the first bar, and you were singing." Elizabeth says it with a little sigh.

Neal feels weirdly uncertain, the idea of it is intimate, like the three of them had been having a very private encounter in Baton Rouge that he hadn't even been aware of. The details Elizabeth isn't filling in, the things she and Peter had seen and felt and talked about, shadow her face. Her eyes are brimming with echoes of those things.

"And the next night, you were gone," Peter says.

"I was only there for..." Neal says faintly.

"I know why you were there, Neal." Then Peter proves he's braver than Neal by asking flat out, "Did you steal the Earl of Essex?"

"They never verified that he was the Earl of Essex," Neal begins, and then snaps his mouth closed. Peter waits for him. "Yes." Neal has to unlearn the art of lying like breathing, and it has to start like this. It has to start with Peter asking and Neal answering, but if he is going to do it then Peter isn't allowed to _omit._ "Did you call in an APB on the car I was driving when I left DC?"

"Yes. The next morning, about a quarter after nine." A full ten hours after Neal had traded it for a Bentley. "Why didn't you leave a goddamned reproduction? You almost caused an international incident."

"They weren't displaying it, so it's not like I needed a placeholder. It was just in transit." Peter takes a breath to say something, and Neal adds quickly, "Did you enter the surveillance tape into evidence?"

"About the same time I reported your car. What did you use to leave that message? I looked at that damned door three or four times, and didn't see anything."

"Sweat. It dries more or less clear, but there's enough oil to repel steam. It's the only thing that works without being too visible. You have to be careful not to streak, it takes a light touch. Did you put the message into evidence?"

"No. I washed the door."

Neal thinks about that for a few long seconds, circling the meaning of it in his head. Peter had withheld evidence. Peter had _destroyed_ evidence.

"Did you know I was going to leave Baton Rouge?" he finally asks uncertainly.

"I knew."

"And you never even thought about trying to stop me?"

"He stayed as far away from you and the Hilliard that day as he reasonably could while still in the same city," Elizabeth says. "And he still caught hell about it."

"What?!" Neal demands, possibly a little stridently.

"It was the first time I really realized how many people knew about you and me," Peter says slowly, like he's laying out his cards after a hand of poker. "I knew you were a big deal _to me_, and that busting you was a big deal for the Bureau. I knew. But. When the Hilliard went missing, I got a call eleven minutes later. They knew my name, and they knew I was in town, and the first thing they asked about was you. They didn't make that connection because you're the only art thief that might want a Hilliard. They made that connection because _I_ was there."

Neal sags alarmingly, knees feeling wobbly. Peter's hand clamps down on his hip, and Neal breathlessly demands, "Did they think you..." He is outraged on Peter's behalf at the same time that he is terrified by the fact that if they had suspected Peter, they had almost been right. Peter had been silently complicit. "Oh my God," Neal says.

"They thought you were screwing with me," Peter says calmly. Neal's pulse is hammering at the inside of his brain, and his really promising hard on had long since fled, and he actually feels a little bit sick. "They thought you followed me to Baton Rouge."

"I followed _you_," Neal echoes harshly, and Elizabeth rubs up and down his arms gently. "Oh my God."

"I was on the scene before the New Orleans field office had a man on the ground."

Neal had left Baton Rouge headed for New Orleans. Kate had met him at the curb, right on schedule, and Neal had shadowed out of town with _Young Man Among Roses_ tucked into a briefcase. Kate was driving an ugly El Camino with a piebald paint job, rust in the wheel wells, and intermittent racing stripes. It was the ugliest car Neal had ever seen, but she could push it so hard it screamed, burying the needle past one-twenty, and it didn't even shake. Kate was more practical than Neal that way.

They had probably passed the New Orleans field agents on the highway.

"I was stupid," Peter says. "I was stupid to follow you there. I knew why you were going, that you were crossing paths with that painting deliberately, that you would take it and run." His voice is low and controlled, laying it out like a grocery list of broken rules and broken laws, like it doesn't kill him every day, like it had been _easy_.

Neal knows better.

"Oh my God, Peter," Neal says. If it had been brain reconstruction before, it's like a complete renovation now, like he's moving the foundation, and it will take a forklift and a crane and possibly an act of God to put it where it should be.

"I just didn't think they'd find out it was even gone for days. I thought you'd use a reproduction."

The rules Peter will break for him, the laws he will bend, the things he has been doing for _years_ that Neal had never known about. Neal does not need it spelled out, he has always been too smart for his own good. The leap Peter had made in DC, in Baton Rouge, probably many times after that Neal does not know about yet, and suddenly it seems monstrous that Neal is even _here_, that he had conned his way quite deliberately into Peter's job and Peter's home and Peter's life.

"You covered my tracks," Neals says dully, it's the only thing that makes sense, and then the fear punches him right in the chest, and he has a hand curled into a fist around the lapel of Peter's suit coat, and he hardly recognizes his own voice, it is so tight and high and cracking. "Peter, Peter, what were you thinking, how could you do that, you could have gone to _prison_\--"

"You _did_ go to prison," Peter roars, and the three of them bounce apart like pinballs, Neal staggering backward, Elizabeth to one side, and Peter three steps to the kitchen, then circling back to prowl a restless ellipse between the coffee table and the hall.

Elizabeth is standing in front of the door with her arms crossed, an unabashed sentinel. Her eyes are huge and pleading, and seeing her looking like that is like being slapped very hard in the face.

"I don't run like that," he tells her, and his voice still sounds awful, hollow, but he ignores it. "I like the chase, but I have never in my life run because I panicked."

"Promise me," Elizabeth says tightly.

"I just did!" Neal half-shouts, and he can clearly see how things had gone from that careful conversation in the car with Peter to the three of them all frightened and shaking and separate, but he still can't believe it's happening.

"Promise better than that," Elizabeth shrills, and she sounds so distressed that Neal takes a deep breath and fists his hands hard for two seconds, and then forces himself to relax all over.

"I promise that I am not leaving here until one of you throws me out. I promise that I will listen to the whole story, and that I will tell you anything you ask me, and that I will try to understand, but you, you have to cut me some slack here, because I'm not used to being _surprised_ like this." And scared. He is scared for Peter, about what could have happened to Peter, and Neal is responsible for that danger, for Peter trying to protect him.

Neal has been scared for people before. For Kate, for Mozzie, for June. He has never lived in total isolation, and he has loved and he has been in love.

But he is completely, starkly, terrifyingly aware, right now, only just _right now_, that this is how it feels to give everything to someone else. To commit, and mean it.

Elizabeth walks away from the door, just like that, like Neal's promise is absolutely trustworthy, and Neal feels like he's reeling a little as she walks past him, past Peter, without a word, and disappears into the kitchen.

He exchanges a long look with Peter. Peter's eyes are wide and a little crazy.

"Look," Neal says, and is frankly horrified at the idea that he's going to say exactly what he's thinking, that he really is very nearly out of control. "Peter, look, I'm, I'm really fucking blindly, frighteningly crazy about you. I mean that in the clinical sense, Peter, in the I will do _crazy_ things for you sense, and I love Elizabeth, I fucking adore her, I want to paint portraits of her and steal museums for her and I want to deserve the way she smiles at me, but Peter, Peter, I don't even know what I'm _doing_ with you."

"Yeah, well," Peter says, and looks away, swallows, looks up at the ceiling, and says, "It's terrifyingly mutual."

It's the least romantic declaration Neal has ever heard, but he's smiling a little in spite of himself. It's very Peter.

Elizabeth walks back into the room. She's cradling the bases of two tumblers half full of amber liquid in one hand and has a third in the other. She hands one to Peter, and another to Neal. She walks around Neal and sits down on the end of the couch, her knees together, both hands curled around her drink and resting on tops of her knees. "Sit," she orders.

Instead of sitting, Peter knocks back the entire contents of his tumbler in two big swallows, and disappears into the kitchen. He comes back ten seconds later with a bottle in his hand and sinks down into a chair across from the couch. He fills his tumbler halfway up again, and sets the bottle on the coffee table.

Neal spins the bottle a little so he can see the label. It's A.H. Hirsch sixteen year old bourbon. It's rare and expensive, which Neal knows because he knows a lot about rare and expensive things. He's surprised. "Pulling out the big guns?" he asks Elizabeth.

"Sit," Elizabeth repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

Neal circles the coffee table and sits on the other end of the couch. He sips his expensive bourbon; he is not a Philistine.

It is very, very good.

All three of them are silent for what feels like about eight years, but is probably about two minutes.

Eventually, Elizabeth sighs and shifts so she's a little sideways on the couch, and kicks Neal in the leg.

Neal goggles at her.

"Shut up," she says, giving him an unmistakably fond look, and kicks him again.

Peter, the jerk, snickers.

"Some day that is not today," Elizabeth says seriously, all her attention focused firmly on Neal, "I will tell you all there is to know about how Peter and I met. I'll tell you how he stalked me, and how he loomed menacingly in the presence of my boyfriend until he went away, how we fought and how I threw a brick at him once, and how we spent a year driving one another crazy and I thought he was the most annoying dickhead ever to walk the Earth until he went away to Quantico halfway through his Master's degree, and somehow two months after he left I was driving to _Virginia_, and how we had sex for the first time in the backseat of my car in the parking lot of the FBI training facility, and then had a fight and I drove all the way back to college swearing I'd never speak to him again, and then he showed up nine hours later and he hadn't even called in an excuse to his instructors, and we spent three days in bed before he went back, and then he just kept showing up every other weekend or so, and we would either fight the whole time or never leave the bedroom, sometimes both, and we figured out that we had to eat as soon as he got there so we didn't starve to death."

Neal stares at her.

"My point is," she says seriously, "that it will settle into something less frantic. This is almost the same story, except with crime, and a ridiculously long incubation period."

Neal blinks.

"And I want you to stop being stupid, right now."

Neal opens his mouth to object, and Elizabeth kicks him in the leg again. _"Shut up!"_ Neal closes his mouth, and doesn't point out that he hasn't ever actually said anything any of the three times she has told him to shut up in the last two minutes.

"There is a lot left of this story, and it's too late to stop telling it now," she says gently. "And if you don't calm down, you're going to end up--" she hesitates, and looks so deeply distressed for a moment that Neal experiences a spike of terror, "-- really, really upset, and Peter and I are not going to deal with it very well because we are both well aware of how much of it... that there are things you will want us not to have done."

Peter is staring at Neal, his mouth a flat, unhappy line. Peter clearly thinks Elizabeth is right, and Neal can't even imagine how it could get worse, but he believes them.

"All right," he says. "Okay, but I have to tell you, I could really use a breather. Can we just. Talk about something else for a few minutes?" The fact that he is absolutely sincere about it only makes it worse, really; Neal doesn't usually have trouble keeping up.

"Sure, that's fair," Elizabeth agrees easily. "What color are your underpants?"

Neal isn't even sure why he finds it unexpected. So far exactly zero percent of the evening has gone as he had expected. "Blue."

"Bet you fifty bucks they match his tie exactly," Peter says, rolling his drink between his hands. He aims a smirk at Neal. It isn't his best smirk ever, but Neal appreciates the effort.

"No bet," Elizabeth says immediately.

"What color are yours?"

"Pink," she answers at once. "What's your favorite color?"

"Red," he says. "Yours is blue. Peter likes brown, which is an offense."

Peter rolls his eyes.

"You almost never wear red," Elizabeth says, surprised.

He tips his head a little, and decides to answer the implicit question honestly. "Red draws the eye. You shouldn't wear it if there's any possibility that you might be trying not to."

Elizabeth frowns faintly, but Peter is nodding his agreement. "Your tie is my favorite color of blue," she redirects adroitly.

"I know," Neal says, and hopes it sounds smoother out loud than it does in his head, in which it sounds unfortunately awkward and stupidly pleased.

Elizabeth's expression seems to indicate that smooth is not what he managed to convey, but she is gracious enough not to mention it. She's giving him a speculative look. "What are our favorite authors?"

"Peter likes Whitman, you like Salinger, and I like Danielle Steele."

"Pants on fire," Peter says, but like he's amused rather than annoyed, which is good to know. Neal can't change who he is. He can learn to do some things differently, but he can't never lie. The idea is absurd.

"I'm a Vonnegut fan," Neal says, "but I have special love for science fiction of almost any kind."

Peter looks surprised for the first time. "Westerns," he says, which doesn't surprise Neal at all.

Elizabeth makes a face. "True crime," she admits.

"El!" Peter sounds appalled.

"I know, I know," she says. "I hide them in my bag," she tells Neal, who couldn't stop himself from laughing for any amount of money. "Music?"

"Classic rock," he points at Peter, "Emo Alternative, don't even make that face at me, I do ride in your car sometimes," he says, pointing at Elizabeth, and points at himself and admits, "Old country and western."

"Lying?" Elizabeth asks Peter. Peter considers for a few seconds, then shakes his head. "Really?" She looks at Neal.

"Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Leonard Cohen." He waves a hand. "I like all music, really. If you want to make music, I'm in favor of you making it any way you like. I love lots of styles, classical, jazz, blues, and I have a weakness for ballads of almost any flavor. But if I have to pick a favorite, it's older country music. It makes me want to sing along."

"That is a stupid, stupid thing to find attractive about you," Peter says crankily, and Neal beams at him.

He can't help it. It isn't like he doesn't already know, but he can't help it. "Why am I the only one answering questions here?" he asks, mostly to stop himself from smiling.

"Apparently, because you know all the answers," Peter tells him.

"Not a fair test of my abilities," Neal says frankly. "None of these questions are even hard."

"I can do harder," Elizabeth say confidently. "What's my favorite dress?"

Neal doesn't think it really qualifies as harder, but he answers anyway. "The gold Diane Von Furstenberg Kimoni."

"What dress looks best on me?"

"The gold Diane Von Furstenberg Kimoni," Neal says at once.

"My favorite shoes?"

"The strappy Mary Janes with the chunky heels."

"Which you hate," Elizabeth points out.

"No I don't," Neal denies automatically. He really kind of does. The two slim straps over the arch of each foot are the only things saving those shoes from total horror, and even then he isn't sure if it's the straps, or just the fact that he would really like to lick Elizabeth's ankles.

She gives him a skeptical look. "How much money is in my account?"

"A little over forty-one thousand dollars, as of Monday, this week." He carefully does not look at Peter. "Living in the city is expensive, I know, and with both of your retirement funds and investments figured in, you'll be able to comfortably retire at fifty-five if you move to the midwest, maybe, but you should be better off, financially."

It's true, they should be. He knows they're good savers. He knows their finances better than they probably do, for years back. There have been several moderately sized withdrawals over the last several years, for ordinary things, mostly. They had paid off a chunk of their mortgage and refinanced at a lower interest rate. They'd sent money to one of Elizabeth's sisters. They'd gone on vacation. There are a couple that Neal hasn't been able to track, but that's not unusual. It isn't huge money, just moderate relative to the size of their income and savings, and that kind of money doesn't leave the same kind of digital trail as really big money does. He won't actually ask, since it's genuinely none of his business, but he can't help noticing, because it's what he does. He's a curious man. But it wouldn't surprise him all that much to find out that Peter has that money stashed somewhere in the house.

Elizabeth sighs. "And this is going to be a problem in the future."

"The Federal Employees Retirement System isn't the worst I've ever seen, but I can do better," Neal volunteers immediately. "Legally," he adds, an afterthought.

"You just lied to me three times, Neal," Elizabeth says. Neal is paralyzed by surprise for two seconds or so, and then just stares at her, astonished.

"I totally bought that," he says, amazed. "You completely had me."

Elizabeth nods in acknowledgment, but she is giving him a steady, steely look that is not anger, but more like challenge.

"This is going nowhere good," Neal murmurs, out loud, entirely without intent. He thinks he was nine the last time he did that. He isn't sure if it's better to blame it on the absolutely unanticipated event of being conned into lying by Elizabeth, or if he should try thinking of it as a personal growth thing. The only saving grace is that he is sure she isn't angry with him. She doesn't want him to lie to her, he isn't stupid, but if that were all, she'd just say so. She's a forthright person. So she has a point, but Neal has no idea what it is. He doesn't think for an instant that it's a game, but he can't help who he is, and this is unexpected, and he's intrigued.

Neal has a swallow of bourbon, and puts his glass on the coffee table. Peter is watching them with interest. If Neal had to guess, he'd say that Peter doesn't know the exact details of what's going on, but that he knows the general outline. He doesn't seem concerned, just interested. He gives Neal a look that clearly says that Neal got himself into this, and Peter had no intention of getting him out of it, but he does give Neal a faint encouraging smile. Which is also interesting. Neal turns toward Elizabeth, elbow on the back of the couch, one knee cocked up onto the cushion, and makes himself comfortable. "Okay," he says. "Why?"

Elizabeth kicks her shoes off under the coffee table and turns to face him, folding her legs up tailor fashion, and tucking her skirt primly around her knees. "Stay with me, Neal." She smiles at him when she says it, which is reassuring.

"I can keep up," he assures her.

"I know," she says wryly. "You lied to protect me." She stops in a way that silently declares that he may rebut. Debate, Neal recalls.

"I'm not seeing the problem here," he rebuts obligingly. It's only half-true. He sees, he just needs to know why she has a problem with it.

"There are several, and I'll take them one at a time. Have I at some point lead you to believe I have a fragile ego?"

"No," Neal says honestly. The thought has never crossed his mind.

"Then why bother to lie to me about what dress looks best on me?" she asks.

"You have impeccable taste, those unfortunate shoes notwithstanding," Neal replies earnestly. "And the VDF looks fantastic on you."

"Don't avoid the question," Elizabeth says with a little exasperation.

"I don't want to hurt you, Elizabeth," he admits awkwardly. "Not even a little bit, especially not over something that doesn't really matter."

"If I asked, then it matters, even if it's only a little. We've already discussed the fact that I don't have a fragile ego. Neal, you have better taste than I do. A little." She gives him a tiny, arch smile. "If I need to know what gun is best for the size of my hand, I'll ask Peter, and I will trust his judgment unless I have a very compelling reason not to. If I want to know what dress to wear to a party that the Mayor is going to be attending, I'll ask you, same reasoning. Do me the courtesy of assuming that if I ask, I actually want to know the answer."

"So noted," he agrees, because she is totally right. He is not at all surprised. "Is there an overarching theme to these three questions, if I may ask?"

"And you're asking because it looks to you like the second question is interchangeable with the first," she says, and looks entirely too self-satisfied.

Neal figures out the difference immediately, in self defense, although he doesn't miss the fact that she had avoided his actual question. "Do you the courtesy of believing that you will tell me to go to hell if you don't care that I hate your ugly shoes."

"I had a really good anecdote for that one, too," she says grumpily, giving him a look that is venom and humor in equal amounts.

"I'd be thrilled to listen to your anecdote, Elizabeth," Neal offers, and Peter snickers.

"Never mind, I'll save it for the next time one of you is being stupid," she says in all sincerity. Neal would like to be offended, but he's certain enough that she will actually use it at some point that being offended just seems silly. "Don't lie to protect my feelings. I'm a big girl, and it's not your job to decide how I feel."

"I've got it," Neal says, and he does. He absolutely does.

"What dress looks best on me?"

"The teal BCBG. I can barely look at you. When we all went to that white tie when the Assistant Directors were in town, you wore that dress, and Peter wore a tuxedo. It was the first time I ever saw him in a suit that fit well. I had to excuse myself to the restroom and wash my hands in very cold water for sixty seconds." He isn't lying at all. He isn't even exaggerating.

She laughs delightedly. "Good answer," she tells him warmly.

"Why don't you tell Peter that all his suits are ugly, except for possibly the pinstriped one, and it should be tailored?"

"She does tell me," Peter says. "I don't care. My suits are comfortable."

"Well tailored suits are inherently more comfortable than non-tailored suits," Neal argues. "That is what tailored _means_. That it is made to _fit you correctly_."

"If you get Peter to buy a tailored suit, I will take you to bed and make you cry," Elizabeth says, half-laughing. He gives her a wide-eyed look, and her cheeks pinken sweetly. "My hand to God, I am not exaggerating."

"She's not," Peter says.

Neal looks at Peter, who is looking back consideringly. "Yeah, but what will you do for me?" Peter asks with a shark grin.

"What won't I do for you, Peter?" Neal asks with absolute, honest sincerity.

There is a beat of silence.

"That is not fair," Peter says finally.

Neal smirks. It takes more self-restraint than it really should to not make the obvious offer.

"How much money do I have in my account?" Elizabeth asks.

Neal almost flinches. "I know for a fact that you're completely capable of leading a conversation in any direction in which you'd like it to go, so why ambush me? It can't be to surprise me into telling the truth. You already know I'm going to tell the truth. There is no way I can get away with lying, since you know the answer to the question. It's just mean, Elizabeth."

"I'm fairly patient, and I don't usually mind the carrot method," she says slowly, and she's meeting his eyes and she isn't visibly upset, but Neal is certain that he has actually hurt her feelings, regardless. "But I'm human, and there is definitely going to be sex at the end of this, so I get impatient, and sometimes I'm a jerk and use the stick because I know I can get away with it."

"And sometimes I would really like to avoid something, and there isn't a way to get out of it, so I'm a jerk and slap other people around with their human and totally understandable impatience even though it isn't going to do me any good, and it's also mean," Neal says.

Peter laughs. They both turn to look at him. "Sorry," he chokes. "I'm sorry. Really. You have the same-" he does something bizarre with his eyebrows, "-sorry eyebrows." For a second, he looks like he's going to be able to control himself, and then he chuckles. He mimes how sorry he is.

They silently agree to ignore him.

"So, I have a suggestion," Neal says.

"Okay," Elizabeth says with every appearance of interest.

"I'm not criticizing your method. It obviously works. I am very clear on the fact that lying to you to protect your feelings is bad. I understand that you're deliberately creating a verbal framework in which I actually experience the Aha! moment myself, and will thereafter presumably integrate the information and use it when appropriate."

"It's not that I forget how smart you are," she tells him seriously. "It's that you're so genuinely likable that it doesn't seem all that important, comparatively."

"How do you know I'm genuinely likable? It's my job to make you think so," he points out.

"Because I like you," she says simply.

"Me, too," Peter offers.

Neal smiles, and for a moment he loses the thread of the conversation.

"Suggestion?" Elizabeth prompts helpfully.

"Yes. So. I know the question, I understand that there is a specific reason behind that specific question that you will carrot me into realizing. I get it. And Peter, you're a jerk for laughing at us, but I mean no offense to you with this. You're trying to communicate something to me with the experience of ten years of communicating with Peter. I am not Peter. I lie by habit and inclination. I will do better. Can you just tell me exactly what it is you think I need to understand beyond that? I might surprise you."

"Okay," she says, and Neal can see her reorganizing her thoughts. "There are real problems with you being a habitual liar."

"Ouch," Neal says wryly.

"You asked for it," Peter says sagely.

He isn't sure there is any point in worrying about conversational pitfalls at this point in the evening. Which doesn't stop him from doing it.

"Don't lie to yourself, or to me, about what you feel for me; I know it isn't how you feel for Peter, and that's okay." Neal objects strongly, and therefore doesn't even let his expression flicker. "Don't think about me like I'm some kind of princess. I am in no way lesser than you and Peter. Don't coddle me; it will just piss me off. Start thinking about me as a partner, and avoid thinking about me as someone that needs to be protected or indulged."

"I want to die a little that it has ever even crossed your mind that I think of you as in any way lesser," Neal says honestly.

"Oh, honey," she says unhappily.

"I have always thought of you as a partner, but you've always been _Peter's_ partner, and I would never..." He spreads his hands. "This was not possible. Thinking about it would just have been unrelieved misery. I don't know how long it will take me to catch up, but my guess is that it won't be long. I _am_ very smart. And for the record, I'm a spectacular guesser."

"I'm familiar with your record," she says, smiling faintly. "I'm willing to bet on your guess."

"I'm not coddling or indulging you. I try to treat you like a lady, and if that's a problem, what can I say? Tell me what not to do, and I won't do it."

"I appreciate being treated like a lady. It's just more important that you're clear that I don't need to be protected from the truth, even if the truth is sometimes ugly. I have an equal stake in this."

"I get that. There are things I don't get, but that isn't one of them. I don't want to derail the point you're trying to make, but I want to address the fact that you think I'm lying to myself and you about how I feel about you, because you're wrong, and you're so wrong that I am actually a little angry with you for the first time in my life."

Elizabeth's mouth actually falls open in surprise. She doesn't say anything, but she reaches for her bourbon and takes a fortifying swallow. "I really wish you had let me do this my way," she says a little shakily.

Neal takes his own fortifying sip of bourbon. "It would have been easier," he concedes. "You said that there are problems with the fact that I'm a habitual liar. You are absolutely right about that, and this is one of them. So I have to ask you to please trust me, here. Please."

"Trust _me_," she says. "I trust you."

Neal nods and takes a breath. "You are a good person, and you love Peter. But I'm asking you to hear me out without interrupting." She nods, but she is wide-eyed with apprehension. Neal doesn't blame her, and he doesn't even let himself look at Peter.

This is one of the reasons that Neal doesn't often tell the ungarnished truth, but there's no help for it.

"I have never had to be afraid of you," Neal confesses evenly. "I have never had to repeatedly make you fail at something important to you in order to protect myself. You have never had to do anything that hurt me. You have never slapped me repeatedly in the face with the fact that you don't trust me. You have not set me up to test my trustworthiness again and again, and I have never failed you like that. You and I have never been adversaries, and I have never been blind-sided by the fact that you could, and would, break my heart. I have never had to accept that I was surprised that you would do it, and that I was stupid to have ever thought otherwise. I never had to believe that you probably didn't even know you were breaking it."

"He never-" Elizabeth begins.

"Yes he did," Neal says, more harshly than he means to. He gentles his voice deliberately, because if he makes Elizabeth cry, he thinks he might die. "Yes, Elizabeth, he did. And I did. Neither of us could have done it differently, I know that, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. It doesn't make any of it less true."

"It's okay, El," Peter says, though he doesn't sound okay at all. Elizabeth looks at Peter, and Neal can't stop himself from looking, too. Peter has one elbow braced on his knee, his forehead resting against his upturned palm, and his eyes are closed. "It's okay," he repeats.

"It's not okay," Elizabeth says. Her eyes are bright with tears, but she's not actually crying, and Neal is clinging to that very slender margin of safety.

"I know, but it's still true. And you," Neal begins, and then pauses and takes another sip of bourbon. It doesn't seem to be helping in the least, but it's a welcome excuse to give himself a moment. "You welcomed me into your home. You didn't hold me at arm's length, even though you had every reason to. You never treated me like a criminal, or an imposition. You were my friend, and not because I could do something for you or because you owed me something. You explicitly encouraged me to cultivate a relationship with Peter. You championed me when I didn't deserve it. You believed that I could be trustworthy, even when I wasn't yet. You were gentle with me when I fucked up, and you encouraged me to do better without ever seeming to be disappointed in me in any way. Elizabeth, you did all of those things in the first six weeks that I knew you, and you never stopped. Not even when it would have served me right."

Elizabeth still looks like she is thinking about crying, but she gives him a shaky smile.

"So you're right that I feel differently about you than I do about Peter. Peter and I have a lot of complicated history, and I'm honestly glad you and I don't. It is simpler to love you, and you're easy to love. But I do not love you less than I love Peter, Elizabeth. It isn't the same, but it's not _less_, I swear to God."

"I'm sorry." She scoots close and leans into his side with her forehead on his shoulder. He puts his arms around her, and she tucks the fingers of one hand into his vest. "I'm sorry. I believe you." He kisses the top of her head.

"I'm sorry you didn't know," he says. "I'll do better."

"I'm sorry I was being stupid," she whispers. "And you're doing fine."

"This is the worst 'breather' ever," Peter says. "I think it might be worse than the conversation we needed a 'breather' from to begin with." It would be funny, except that Peter's voice is terrifyingly unsteady. "In fact, this may be the worst conversation I have ever had in my life."

"I completely agree," Neal says carefully. He is worried about Peter in a way that has nothing to do with his physical safety, and has no idea what to do about it. Elizabeth will know what to do, but he can't ask her with Peter sitting right there. Then he realizes that he actually _can_, and spends a couple of seconds trying to decide how to articulate the question. And then he just says, "What do we do? Should I take a walk?"

He just means that they might want a moment alone so that Elizabeth can cuddle Peter or something. He is entirely unprepared for them to yell at him.

"No!" Elizabeth exclaims at the same time that Peter snaps, "If you try to leave this house I am going to handcuff you to something, I swear to God, Neal."

Neal doesn't even know how to respond. He gives Elizabeth a pleading look.

Elizabeth tilts her head, glances measuringly at Peter, and says, "I volunteer to have Neal handcuffed to me."

Peter cracks a smile, though it's a little frayed at the edges. "Later," he offers.

"My eyebrows would still like to renegotiate the timetable," Neal ventures. He arches them hopefully at Peter, and Peter's smile settles in.

"Compromise," Elizabeth says. "Finish the current topic, and then I will sit topless on Neal's lap for ten minutes."

Neal stares at her.

"To give your eyebrows an actual breather," she tells him.

"Because the breather worked out so well for us last time," Neal says, but he's hardly paying attention to what he's saying. He's picturing Elizabeth naked from the waist up. Then he's imagining her swinging a leg over his thighs, and her skirt riding up, and the weight of her settling there. And then he's imagining Peter coming around the coffee table and cupping her breasts from behind.

And then Elizabeth pinches him.

"Ow," Neal says dazedly. "What about Peter?"

"I like to watch," Peter says so easily that it takes a second or two for Neal to really grasp that it is unbearably, overtly sexual in a way that makes Neal a little dizzy.

He looks at Peter helplessly.

"That's a great look on you," Peter tells him, honest and admiring. "I hope I get to see your eyebrows like that a lot."

Neal opens his mouth, and then closes it. He turns his helpless look on Elizabeth.

Elizabeth pets his hair. "Do you want some ice water?"

"Yes, please," Neal says.

"I've got it," Peter says, and vanishes into the kitchen.

"What the hell?" Neal whispers heatedly to Elizabeth. "That should not be remotely sexy. It should be ridiculous!"

"No, oh, I know," she whispers back. "He does it all the time, and it only works because he's not actually trying to be sexy. It's like he's afflicted with wacky sexiness."

"I am just mortified," Neal hisses.

"You'll get used to it," she promises, and pats his knee.

Peter brings back ice water for all of them. Neal drains half his glass, puts it carefully down, and decides that the best way to get things moving is to wade right in.

"So, I don't get why Peter doesn't know about your offshore account, and I don't get why you chose to play me as a card in the big reveal."

"Yes, well, it's a little less effective as an Aha! moment if you don't let me carrot you along to the correct conclusion," Elizabeth complains. "And it would have made for an excellent Aha! moment. And I wasn't 'playing' you."

Neal is amused in spite of himself. "You were absolutely playing me," he maintains. "I play people for a living, I know what it looks like." She glares at him. It's impossible to be annoyed with Elizabeth, though. It's not really new information, except that it seems like it's more pertinent due to the situation. "I'd just like to point out right now, that Peter clearly had some inkling of your secret account, Elizabeth. Also, the only reason I can come up with for you to have an offshore account that Peter is unaware of is that you needed to do something with it that was of questionable legality. If that's the case, you need to be better at hiding it. It took me about forty-five seconds to find it."

"It was something of questionable legality," Elizabeth says evenly. "Which was why Peter didn't know about it. Which was the point of using it in this conversation." She picks up her bourbon and takes a big gulp. Neal winces in sympathy at the face she makes. She chases it with ice water. "And I'll definitely let you hide it next time," she concludes.

Her casual certainty that Neal will be here for this hypothetical next time catches somewhere in his chest. It takes him a moment to get his mental feet back under him.

"So you were hiding it from Peter for his own good?" Neals asks carefully. "And in the rules, that is okay?"

Elizabeth takes a breath, and Peter asks, "Can I take this one? The two of you are great at this, really, but I want to actually have sex with both of you sometime before morning. Let me just summarize, okay?"

They both turn to look at him.

"Neal," Peter says. "If you thought it would put her in danger in any way, shape or form, would you tell Elizabeth where to find the big pile of money and stolen goods that I have no evidence exists?"

"No," Neal admits, and wincingly anticipates the follow-up question.

"Would you tell me?"

"Shit, Peter," Neal says.

"Exactly," Peter says. "We will lie to protect each other. We will _all_ lie, and we will lie to each other if necessary. We have to trust each other to know when to lie, to know when to tell the truth, and to know that if you don't know what to do, you spill everything. Elizabeth will not tell me things, you will not tell Elizabeth things, I will probably not tell both of you things. We all have to know this will happen. Don't lie to us if you can help it, but we trust you to decide if it's necessary."

Peter stands up, frowns down at both of them for a second, and then sits back down. Neal recognizes this as Peter's way of mentally collecting himself. Peter puts his empty water glass on the coffee table with a thump of finality. Apparently this means that Peter is done talking, since he doesn't say anything else. He does pick up his bourbon glass, though he doesn't actually drink. He just holds it.

"Okay," Neal says, and means it. "I've got it."

Apparently Elizabeth is going to take him at his word; she cups Neal's chin to turn him to face her. When he does, she plants a hand in the middle of his chest and shoves him unceremoniously onto his back.

"Wha--?" he says, vaguely embarrassed at how easily she is manhandling him, but not enough to attempt to stop her. "Okay, that was unexpected."

"Get used to it," Elizabeth says cheekily, and shifts up to one knee on the couch. "Feet up."

"My shoes," he objects, and Elizabeth pulls her blouse over her head without fanfare. Neal puts his feet up.

Elizabeth slides nimbly up to his waist, straddles his hips, and settles lightly, the warm curve of her ass aligned perfectly with his groin. Neal's hands rise automatically to curl around her waist, his fingertips splayed wide to map the bare skin of her lower back.

"Peter," she says, "you'd better time us."

Peter cocks his wrist and does something to his watch. "You're on the clock."

"If there are rules of some sort here, now would be a good time to tell me," Neal says.

"The rest of our clothes stay on, and I get to be on top," she says.

"I have no problem with that," Neal agrees fervently.

"Then knock yourself out."

He gets his feet up flat for some leverage and shifts them both up until his back is against the arm of the couch, just so he can reach all of her more easily. It has the added benefit of allowing him to fit her to him in the way that will work best for her. She gives him a knowing smile, but obligingly arches her back. He slides his hands around her ribs until his thumbs meet just under her breastbone, and drags them down the soft skin of her belly until they hit the waist of her skirt. He tugs it down just a little, so he can thumb the curve of her navel.

Her bra is pink cotton, and has tiny white and red hearts on it. It is unpadded and untrimmed, sweet and pretty, but not meant as packaging. It's just regular underwear. Elizabeth hadn't known for sure that Neal was coming, but she'd known it was a possibility, and she had not changed into the inky lace and sheer underthings that Neal knows without looking that she has in her bureau. She's wearing her at home underwear. Her 'I'm already sure of you' underwear.

It's excruciating, and he understands exactly why.

He turns to Peter with the hazy intention of asking if he's wearing his good underwear. A moment before he does, he realizes that Peter doesn't have good underwear. Peter has the same pair of underwear twelve times.

It doesn't matter anyway; he'd have never managed to get the question out.

Peter is tipped back in his chair, his knees splayed, one foot propped on the corner of the coffee table. He has one arm up on the arm of the chair. The other arm is tucked close to his side, forearm draped across his thigh, the heel of his hand pressed firmly against what Neal is assuming is his erection. Neal can't really see anything because of Peter's stupid ugly suit coat and his stupid untailored pants. Peter is looking straight back at Neal, and giving him such a hipshot smirk that Neal is grumpily sure Peter had just been waiting for Neal to notice.

Clearly Peter had not been underselling his enjoyment of watching.

For the first time in his life, Neal has a glimmer of understanding about what people mean by 'an embarrassment of riches.'

"The clock is ticking, Neal," Peter says, infuriatingly smug.

Neal jerks his hips up against Elizabeth only half-intentionally, and stops looking at Peter. He tips his chin upward in invitation, and Elizabeth takes him up on it. She isn't even a little bit shy.

Neal had suspected as much when she'd nearly tackled him out the front door, but she's giving it to him in a much bigger dose this time. Her mouth is warm and demanding, soft lips and wicked tongue. She still tastes a little sweet, but mostly of smoky bourbon. The taste of hard liquor on Elizabeth's tongue is intriguingly spicy, as is the small, pleased sound she makes into his mouth. She shoves both hands into his hair and holds him where she wants him, and Neal growls appreciatively and tightens his hands on her hips to pull her to where he wants her. She grinds down helpfully, and Neal gasps a little, and pulls back. Her lips are wet and her cheeks are flushed.

"Clarify 'stay on'," Neal demands, and brushes one strap of her bra off her shoulder experimentally. She doesn't object, so he tips his head forward to sweep his tongue along the elegant slant of her collarbone and follows it down all the way to the soft flesh of her breast, licking right along the edge of the cup of her bra.

"Not removed from the body," she murmurs, and Neal scrapes his teeth along the trail of wet skin he's left as a thank you. She braces a hand against his shoulder. Her eyes are hotly expectant.

He grins at her, and pushes the other bra strap down. She grins back, and shrugs expertly so both straps slide down her arms. Her breasts don't quite spill out, but all he has to do is dip his head and brush his lips along the top of one cup, and she is bare-breasted and grinning at him. It takes huge amounts of willpower that Neal does not have a very firm handle on not to flip her over and violate both rules spectacularly.

He consoles himself for his unfortunate self-control by pressing a kiss to each dusky nipple. Elizabeth shivers at even those small touches, and Neal feels a little bit better as he watches her nipples tighten, goosebumps dusting the rest of her skin. The hollow of her throat trembles with her heartbeat, and she sucks in a breath when he bites gently at her collarbone, her throat, her jaw.

He braces his hands on her back and she lets him take her weight and tip her. He dips his head to lick along the curve of a breast, and she arches and shifts against his lap hard enough to make him groan and scrape his teeth along her nipple. She murmurs out a silky sound of pleasure, and he slides a hand into her hair to cradle the back of her head, and uses the other arm to drag her closer, using his arms to hold her up and his mouth to hold her down.

He arches up as well as he can in this position, hard enough to make his cock ache a little, but he can't care because she is hissing with pleasure, and he's painfully, acutely aware that if there were no clothes between them, he would know exactly what it feels like to have Elizabeth's clit pressed up against the head of his cock.

"I want to be on top," he tells her honestly, if a little breathlessly, and half bites, half sucks at one nipple until she is shuddering against him, and she is wet and hot for him, he knows it, and it's unbearable not to be able to feel it.

"I'm on top," she insists, though she is gratifyingly breathless as well, shifting her hips restlessly, very nearly riding against him.

Neal probably would have let it go, too, he is good at working with what he's got, but when he shifts so he can slide one hand as far up her thigh as her skirt allows, she makes a quiet, wanting sound that is so appealing Neal can't stand it. So he agrees, "You're on top, Elizabeth," and works more creatively within the limitations she has set.

He kicks off his shoes and tightens the arm low around her back. "Hold on," he directs, and she slings both arms around his neck cooperatively while he shifts up to his knees, dragging his arm up higher to support her weight as he settles onto his heels. She slides one arm down from his neck to curl up behind his elbow, taking some of her weight back, helping him hold her, and she's like a very fine dance partner, following his lead and making them both look good.

And it accomplishes his goal, which is to give him a little more space between them and to increase the amount of force he can exert with the rest of his body. It isn't perfect but it will do.

Neal lives by asking for forgiveness, rather than permission, and he doesn't see any reason to stop now. He slides his hand up her thigh, her skirt bunching along the backs of his knuckles, and she makes a hitching, breathless sound as he hooks her panties to the side and presses his thumb against her clit. She rolls her hips, and he lets her ride against his hand and his cock, just holds her up and watches her face slide from excited arousal into dazed desire. He'd love to kiss her, taste the salt he can see shimmering on her skin, but he wants to watch her more.

He is totally capable of using his fingers inside her and his thumb on her clit at the same time, one-handed, but there is no way to do with her on top, no matter how much better he's made the angle. His hand is still wedged between their bodies, and he isn't going to argue it with her again while they're trapped inside a time limit. Instead he twists his wrist around and presses in, two fingers at once, and she's wet enough to take it, and he strokes into her as deeply as he can, giving her the heel of his hand to push against. It won't take her all the way, it's not precise enough, but he has to have the way she is slick and so so hot, and the way she clenches around his fingers and the way her breath goes high and frantic. She goes rigid and heavy, her head falls back, and she moans, "Please, please," and he groans as he pulls his fingers free, at the sound she makes, a high, protesting whine that cuts down into a needy moan when he thumbs her clit again. She twists her hips against the pressure of his thumb and he keeps his back bowed back so she can rock against the length of his cock.

"Yes, come on," Neal gasps, and thinks he should have turned her _around_, damn it, when he'd shifted them. It's too late, now, she's got a rhythm and Neal is just providing her with some leverage, both of them breathing fast and harsh, and he is somehow not arching up to get his cock some more effective friction because it will interrupt her and he wants to hear her come.

"Now bite her," Peter says, voice all low and growly, and Neal's hips do jerk up then, he can't help it, a backlash from the tight burn of desire Neal has been ignoring at the base of his spine. "High up on her neck, right under her ear," he adds impatiently, when Neal turns to look at him instead of doing as he says.

Peter is flushed and splayed on the chair, but he's removed the heel of his hand from his cock, and in spite of his ill-fitting suit, Neal can see the outline through his pants now, thick and pressed to the right, and Neal's hips jerk up hard and a sound of shocked lust chokes out of his throat. Elizabeth goes trembling and taut, hips snapping, and Peter snarls, "Hard as you want, but do it now," and Neal turns his face into Elizabeth's neck and drags her close and bites down as directed.

"Neal!" Elizabeth cries, not loud but sharp, and Neal bites harder, presses harder, and she wails out a low, helpless sound and shudders and shudders while he holds her.

He waits until she is breathing more or less evenly and sagging against his chest before he carefully disengages his hand from her panties. Neal's breathing is still considerably ragged.

"How much time," he asks, watching Elizabeth dazedly pulling herself back together.

"Nearly four minutes still," Peter tells him. His voice is thick with want, but still laced with amusement. "Good job."

Neal shoots him a glare, dragging his eyes off the bite mark on Elizabeth's throat almost unwillingly. "Peter, take off your coat," Neal says. Elizabeth rolls her hips a little, and Neal slides a hand to her waist to encourage her, sliding the other out from under her skirt, dragging his fingertips along the silky skin of her inner thigh. Neal can feel the heat of Elizabeth through his pants; her panties are so wet she's probably leaving a damp spot along the entire length of his cock. Peter is staring at them, sitting very still. "Take it off," Neal repeats, and sucks the taste of Elizabeth off of his thumb. Peter sucks in a breath and grips the arms of his chair with both hands. "You aren't even allowed to look at us while you're wearing that ugly, ugly coat."

Peter stands and shrugs out of it without comment, and then surprises Neal by dropping it on the floor. Elizabeth laughs quietly and nuzzles at the hinge of Neal's jaw.

Peter takes off his shoulder harness and sets his gun aside, and then unbuttons his shirt cuffs. "Now you're in trouble," Elizabeth whispers in Neal's ear, and the roll of her hips has become purposeful and maddening. Peter is thumbing open the buttons of his shirt one by one, deliberately unhurried, and Neal is effectively poleaxed by the idea that he's going to get to see Peter's chest, which includes Peter's nipples and Peter's bellybutton, and he can't conceive of the idea of looking away even long enough to look at Peter's face.

Elizabeth's hands are pulling at Neal's vest, and he is flatly not paying attention, he'll let her do whatever she wants to do, he is busy with the idea of Peter _naked_, which is fine until Peter's hands begin on the fourth button of his shirt, and then pauses there, just hovering. Then Peter stops entirely, hands falling to his sides, fourth button still frustratingly fastened, and really, just one more button would give Neal at least a nice slice of chest to look at. Surely that isn't too much to ask for.

He looks up at Peter's face, mouth open to either demand or berate, he hasn't actually decided, and sees that Peter is flushed ruddy, his mouth wet and a little open, eyes fixed firmly in the vicinity of Neal's chest. Neal looks down.

Elizabeth has managed to open Neal's vest while Peter was unbuttoning with glacial speed, and has Neal's shirt half-undone as well. Somehow, she has already untied his tie. It is still tucked under his collar, but hanging a loose blue slash across his chest on either side of his shirt buttons. Elizabeth reaches his belt and fists her small hands at his waist, dragging the tails out of his pants. She unbuttons the last three buttons so quickly it seems a little surreal, and shoves the sides of his shirt apart, baring his chest.

She stares at Neal's chest for several long seconds as she divests him of his belt at a more leisurely pace, and then she scoots backward off his lap without actually touching him.

Neal reaches after her, and she dodges behind him. He twists to follow her, and Elizabeth catches his shoulders and eases him down even as Peter hooks his hands behind Neal's knees and yanks his legs out from under him, leaving Neal flat on his back on the couch again, just as he'd started.

"Hands," Peter says, and Neal holds them out obediently, close together, as though Peter were holding handcuffs. Peter just pulls Neal upright, and says, "Hold them up." Neal does, though he has no idea why, and Peter grabs his shirt and vest and drags them both up, all the way up Neal's arms, but not off of Neal's wrists.

"You're kidding me," Neal half-laughs.

Peter smirks back, and says, "I can't believe that even worked," and shoves Neal onto his back again, his shirt and vest and tie all tangled up above his head, but still technically on his body.

"I can almost see your belly button," Neal explains. Peter twists his wrist to glance at his watch. Then he grabs Neal's pants and drags him downward on the couch, presumably so Neal can stretch his arms out above him.

"How long?" Neal demands, urgent and breathless, and absolutely not uncontrollably aroused by Peter manhandling him, no matter what anyone says.

Peter pushes one of Neal's legs entirely off the couch and plants a knee between Neal's thighs. "Don't think about it," he murmurs.

"Some day I get to be on top," Neal says.

"I promise," Peter says, and drops a kiss directly between Neal's nipples. He splays both of his hands across Neal's chest. He is staring down at Neal with something that looks like reverence tangled up with avarice. It is an unsettling thing to see on Peter, if only because it's like looking at an echo; it is the same kind of want that drives Neal to steal art, to reproduce it, a vast and never-satisfied desire to have it under his hands, to make it or remake it or make it better or just to make it his.

He isn't sure it's a good thing, that look on Peter, but he can't care. He wants it, and he understands it, and he won't tell Peter no anyway. He will never tell Peter no.

"Come on, Peter," he says instead, and pushes up into Peter's hands. "I haven't got all day, here."

"Smartass," Peter says, and the smile flickering at he corners of his mouth mutes some of that look, and then Peter drags his palms down Neal's chest and across his belly, and he is expertly unfastening Neal's trousers.

Neal flushes, a hot rush across his cheeks, down his neck and his chest, and shifts restlessly, attempting without much success, to stop himself from shoving his hips against Peter's hands.

"If you were still, this would be faster," Peter tells him, amusement and impatience a thin veneer over the low, rough-edged voice that is starting to become familiar, that Neal wants to hear Peter using to say filthy, filthy things, and does nothing at all to help Neal keep still under Peter's hands.

"If I were still, would you put your mouth on my cock?" Neal says, entirely without meaning to, this evening he has said more without meaning to than he has in the rest of his life put together.

Peter goes still, they both do, a thick, heavy silence settling between them. Peter huffs out a breath and closes his eyes, his body wire-tight above Neal. Then he shifts one hand and is cupping Neal's cock firmly, the heel of his palm flush and hard against the head, fingers pressed along the shaft firmly. Neal rides up into Peter's hand, shuddering, he couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to, and Peter makes a low, grinding noise in the back of his throat.

Peter opens his eyes and moves up Neal's body smoothly, his hand still pressed roughly to Neal's cock. He touches Neal's face with his other hand, just brushes the side of his thumb across Neal's cheekbone. "I would love to," he rasps, and brushes his lips fleetingly across Neal's. "I've been thinking about it for right around six years, and I would love to suck your cock, Neal." Neal's breath leaves him in a harsh gasp. There is no question that Peter means it, he is looking Neal right in the eyes, and Peter brushes his mouth against Neal's again, but doesn't stay long enough for Neal to catch him. "But I don't have enough time, and I want to look at you." There is a very clear, very real sense of longing in Peter's voice, in his face, and Neal knows he is not going to be able to resist it. "I want to see," Peter asks, throaty and sincere, and Neal nods, helpless to do anything else.

Peter drags himself back down Neal's body, but this time he pauses briefly to press his lips to Neal's collarbone, to lick gently at one nipple and then bite down on the other hard enough to make Neal groan, and he has one hand splayed across Neal's ribs, but the other is still pressed firmly against his cock. Neal is pushing into it rhythmically, Peter hadn't moved it, and Neal isn't sure he could stop anyway. He twists a little when Peter bites along his side lightly, and then licks his belly just above the waist of his pants.

"Peter," Neal says.

"Just be still," Peter says softly, and Neal does, he even manages to quiet his rocking hips by some miracle. His breath stutters when Peter drags his hand away from Neal's cock, but he manages not to object. Then Peter is quickly negotiating Neal's zipper and folding back the fabric to either side. "Blue," Peter says, lips quirking a little at the not-revelation that is Neal's silk boxers.

One of Elizabeth's hands somehow works its way into the tangle of Neal's clothes to twine her fingers with his, and Neal squeezes her hand and shudders and thinks about the way she is looking at him, if it will look the same as Peter looks, like she could look for years and it would not be long enough. He doesn't look. He doesn't think he'll be able to hold still if he sees that look on both of them at once. "I've got you," Elizabeth whispers from someplace above Neal. "You're okay."

Neal doesn't say anything. He is trembling with the effort it takes to hold still, and shivering at the way it feels to have Peter's fingertips sliding along the waistband of his boxers, the way Peter thumbs his hipbones briefly, the way Peter is looking at him, all focus and examination, as Peter's fingertips fold into the elastic and take it down slowly, slightly up to get it past the head of Neal's cock. Neal has to close his eyes at the cool, open air against his overheated skin, and has to open them again when Peter makes a low twist of sound, roughly heated. The elastic waist of his boxers scrapes along the shaft of Neal's cock as Peter drags them down, and Neal chokes out a moan. Peter strokes over the skin with his thumb, like an apology, and Neal actually shouts, briefly but loudly. Peter looks up at him, and Neal looks back and doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to, he knows he looks like all the things he would say already.

Peter's watch beeps, and Neal jumps, his whole body arching with surprise and negation. "Don't," he says. "Don't."

But Peter does anyway. He straightens slowly, and meets Neal's gaze for a long, hot span of seconds, and then he tugs Neal's boxers up over his cock, twists his pants back into place, and zips his fly. He's going for the fastenings when Neal jackknifes up off the couch and to his feet, stalks past Peter kneeling on the end of the couch, and puts the coffee table quite deliberately between them and him. He jerks the tangle of his shirt and vest and tie out from around his wrists and flings them in the direction of the hall.

Peter stands up, and Neal barks, "Sit," and points a finger at him.

Peter gives Neal a considering look, but sits down.

"You, too," he tells Elizabeth, who is technically already sitting, perched on the arm of the couch. She slides obediently onto the cushions. She and Peter scoot close without seeming to be aware that they're doing it.

Neal tips his head back to stare at the ceiling and runs both hands through his hair, collecting himself as well as he can. He is half-angry with them both, but it's frustration more than anger, confusion and desire, and the solid understanding that they aren't screwing with him. They wouldn't do that, not to this degree, or at least they wouldn't spring it on him now, like this.

"I am trying to be reasonable about this," he tells the ceiling.

"We're not trying to cock-block you, Neal," Elizabeth says, and Neal groans painfully, and stares at the ceiling while his cock tries to escape the layers of fabric constraining it.

"You cannot say cock-blocking to me, Elizabeth," he says tightly, tipping his face down so that she can see that he means it. "I will die. In fact, you can't say cock at all." Peter opens his mouth, and Neal looks at him. "I will make you so sorry," he promises quietly.

They watch him with wary attention.

"Explain to me," Neal says, sighing it out, "in concise detail, why the deadline on this had to be adhered to so precisely. Because I have to tell you, I am not seeing the reasoning, and not being able to see the reasoning is making me very, very frustrated and a little angry."

"We have fights," Peter says immediately. "At first, huge, ugly ones. Not as much anymore, but still. Heated arguments. Sometimes we need to walk away."

"Sometimes Peter just goes and makes a drink, or I take a quick shower, and we don't really time those, or not usually. The act itself is the length of the break," Elizabeth explains. "But sometimes," she pauses, and tips her head a little, "most of the time, really, we fuck."

"Don't say fuck, either," Neal objects absently, absolutely fascinated by this information.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, disturbingly Peter-like.

"We fuck on the floor or the couch or just wherever we're at, or Elizabeth just leans over and gives me a merciless handjob, or I go down on her and make her come twice, because she's so sensitive the second time she ends up halfway in tears," Peter continues.

Neal stares at them. He has a very vivid imagination, and he's tripping helplessly up on the phrases 'merciless handjob' and 'halfway in tears.' This explanation is in no way helping to calm him, but he can't even blame them. He did ask.

"There has to be a time limit, or we just don't stop," Elizabeth finishes matter-of-factly. "We go to bed and we still have to deal with it the next morning. It's one of those things we just figured out, after a few times. That it makes it worse, if we don't deal with it, but that taking a break to work off some aggravation is actually helpful, so. Time limit."

"I need a playbook," Neal mutters, and Peter smiles. Neal lets him, because it makes sense. Their rules make sense, and he isn't surprised. They're both sensible and smart, and they're in love, and of course they have rules on how to handle things like this. But he is still kind of pissed. "I'm still kind of pissed," he tells them.

"My fault," Peter says, and actually looks guilty about it. "I had to see. I'm usually better at..." He waves a hand and looks endearingly helpless.

"Peter, we've been working together for a year, and I just found out ten weeks ago that you might, maybe, want to sleep with me. You contain yourself just fine," Neal says dryly.

"I was happy to just have you," Peter tells him awkwardly, like it pains him a little to admit it. "I was happy."

Neal nods. He was happy, too, mostly. But he isn't as good a person as Peter, and he can't say he would have stayed happy forever, with nothing else. Peter may have been, but Peter has Elizabeth. Neal doesn't know how long he would have been happy, and he is frankly glad to really be able to believe that he is not going to have to find out.

He isn't going to have to find out. The breather had a time limit, but the rest of it... is permanent.

He takes several deep breaths and rolls his shoulders, and pretends very hard that he doesn't see Peter and Elizabeth staring at him rolling his shoulders.

"I get to make rules, too," Neal announces. "Not for all eternity, but for right now. For the rest of this encounter."

He gives them a chance to object, but neither of them do.

"No more touching," he says. "The next person that touches me is tacitly agreeing to be shoved onto the floor until such a time as I have had an orgasm, and I don't care if that means we wake up tomorrow and start the day with a fight."

"It's not going to be a fight," Peter objects, but Neal just waves a hand.

"Whatever it's going to be, it doesn't matter. What matters is, you have to stop touching me. You both have a wretchedly overdeveloped sense of fair play, and it's killing me. Either fuck me, or stop touching me."

Peter looks torn, and Elizabeth rubs his back comfortingly. She can afford to be magnaminous. She's already had an orgasm.

"What else?" Elizabeth asks.

"Eye candy," Neal says firmly. Elizabeth arches a brow at him; she looks like she might be thinking about laughing. "I'm completely serious. I am half-naked, and the two of you managed to mangle my clothes. If the last two conversational interludes are anything to go by, the rest is going to be like taking a verbal beating, and I want something nice to look at. It's only fair that we all be stripped to the same degree." He shuts his mouth abruptly.

"I'm not sure this is the best way to go if you want to avoid touching," Elizabeth says gently.

"Elizabeth, I am wrestling with six hundred years of badly-suppressed lust for your husband. I want to touch him so badly that I nearly had a stroke when I realized he was taking off his shirt. I just spent half of the last ten minutes with my hands in your underwear; I know what it feels like when you come. I can still smell you on my hands. I spent the rest of that ten minutes under Peter while he _barely_ touched me, and I did exactly what he asked me to do, and when Peter's watch went off, I got up off the couch and removed myself from temptation, because I extrapolated that the time limit was a rule I didn't really understand yet. If I wanted to use my ignorance as an advantage, I'd have done it then. If my willpower was going to break, it already would have," he says, and spreads his hands.

Elizabeth unhooks her bra and drops it on the floor.

"You're a pain in the ass," Peter tells him sincerely.

Neal recognizes that as a win, and smirks at him. "Don't be scared, Peter. I promise it won't hurt."

Peter gives him an irritated look, and then stands up and straightens his shoulders. He doesn't smile, he doesn't even smolder the way that Neal now knows that he can. He actually still looks faintly irritated. But he raises his right hand and touches the second buttonhole of his shirt with his thumb. He hooks his index finger underneath, and drags the fabric an inch or so to one side, and then pulls his hand downward, dragging his shirt a little further open as he goes.

Elizabeth slides all the way down to the other end of the couch, apparently so that she can watch, too. Neal doesn't blame her.

No one has ever had to tell Neal that time is relative. He lives life in the present, and in the past, and in the future all at once, and he always has. He knows all the things that went wrong, the ones that went right, he absorbs information while it flows by him, he is always planning, anticipating, and adjusting his course. He grasps that everyone's awareness of the passage of time is flexible.

This in no way explains the way it takes Peter twenty years to work his way through a single button. His tie and belt and coat have long since been banished, and even the cuffs of his shirt are already undone, so there is no reason for it. It's five seconds of work, at the most.

Neal doesn't even make it all the way through the first one. After Peter has fondled it for several decades, he says, "How do you ever even get out of the house? Does Elizabeth dress you every morning and undress you at night?" He means it to come out as mockery. He misses mockery by three or four states, and lands somewhere in desperation.

"Do you want to do it?" Peter asks, low and rough. "Ah, you can't. That would be touching."

Neal raises his gaze to Peter's face. Peter's expression would be smug, except for his hot eyes and his slightly parted lips.

"You're a pain in the ass," Neal tells him darkly.

Peter doesn't smile. His gaze goes glittery and half-lidded. "Don't be scared, Neal. I promise it won't hurt."

"It's okay," Neal says lazily, barely curling a corner of his mouth into a smile. "It can hurt a little."

Peter's chin snaps up, and his hands clench around the front of his shirt briefly. The look he gives Neal is fierce, but he doesn't say anything. He just slides his hands back to work on his buttons. After a small eternity, button number four comes loose, and Peter's hands drag slowly down to button number five.

"I'm going to suck you off so slowly that your wife has to hold you down," Neal says conversationally, to watch Peter's hands freeze, to watch him close his eyes and take a breath.

When he opens his eyes they are no less heated, but there is a smug certainty there, and in the curve of his lips that is not quite a smile or even a smirk. "Looking forward to it," Peter says, and slips another button open.

If possible, his hands linger on the last button even longer, and he has the fabric of his shirt pulled taut enough that Neal can only see a slice of skin the width of a finger between the sides.

"Stop screwing with me," Neal orders, though some of the command is stripped out of it by the way it sounds slightly breathless.

"I like screwing with you," Peter tells him, smiling sharply. "I always have."

But he finishes opening the last button and lets his hands fall to his sides, so Neal is going to call it a win.

"Off," Neal says, and Peter tilts his head.

"I'm working up to it," he says seriously.

"When did you get so mean?" Neal asks, and stops trying to keep himself from crossing the three feet of space between them.

"I've always been this mean," Peter claims, and then holds his arms out when Neal reaches for him. "Whoa, there. Touching."

"I'm not going to touch you," Neal snaps, "though I am never ever going to forget how you're using this against me."

Peter does not look worried.

"Lower them a little," Neal directs, and Peter draws his elbows in without further need for clarification. Neal plots future revenge absently as he takes careful hold of the edges of Peter's shirt and draws them away from his body.

Peter's chest is gorgeous. His nipples are paler than Neal would have guessed, not pink, but as close to it as possible while being a little tan. He's hairless, and corded ropes of muscle are visible under the skin above his nipples. Neal wants to put his mouth on them and find out what they feel like when Peter moves. Neal doesn't know what he had thought, exactly, but this isn't it. Peter isn't much bigger than Neal, really, but he is built wider, shoulders a little broader. But Peter's ribs are visible as faint ridges, and his chest narrows beautifully into his waist, all hard lines and sharp hollows. He's like an etching, everything visible under his skin. He even has a six-pack, not thick with bulk, but carved lightly, something that looks like it came from actual work rather than mandatory gym-time. His belly button is a dark, faint dip that Neal cannot wait to lick at, and the V of muscle that disappears into the waist of his pants makes Neal's hands spasm in the folds of Peter's shirt. He can see Peter's hipbones, pressing against the inside of his pants. He can see the outline of Peter's cock, just faintly, below them.

Neal has to drag his eyes away, and he is caught by Peter's gaze as he does.

Peter is quietly desperate. He is dazed and shivering.

He forgives Peter for the thing on the couch with a mental sigh.

Mostly.

He slides his hands up the sides of Peter's shirt and lifts it away from his shoulders.

"Put your arms down," he directs, and Peter slowly lowers his arms. Neal follows them down, easing the shirt down Peter's back while carefully not touching him at all, goes right down to his knees to pull it free of Peter's wrists. He has to turn his face to one side to do it, his cheek a bare inch from Peter's groin. He drops it when he's done, and leans back just enough to look up at Peter along the length of his body.

"Now that is mean," Peter says as though slightly stunned.

"Tell me about it," Neal agrees, and forgives Peter completely due to the degree of difficulty it takes to make himself back away enough to get to his feet and return to his own side of the coffee table.

"Peter, your wardrobe is an affliction," Neal says, once he figures out how to say anything at all. "It doesn't do you justice." And that is such a mild way of putting it that Neal almost wants to take it back and try again, try for something that is a little clearer, something that conveys Neal's itchy desire to put his mouth all over Peter.

"You aren't in this for my body," Peter says dryly, mouth smiling, eyes still hot.

"Well, I wasn't, but I am now," Neal says, thoughtless and absolutely truthful, and when he draws his gaze away from the cuts of Peter's hips, Peter is looking down at his feet, corners of his mouth tipped up, and is blushingly, adorably bashful.

"Really?" Neal asks Elizabeth.

She nods, looking sideways at Peter and smiling. "And he's never going to believe you, either."

Across the coffee table, Peter is smiling at the same time that he's looking faintly uncomfortable. He is making eye contact with a vase full of flowers, the corners of his eyes a little crinkled, and shifting his weight from foot to foot, something that is about an eighth of an inch away from being a shuffle.

"How does he do that thing, then, with the 'I'm undressing and you can't look away and I know it' and then, this?" Neal wonders aloud.

Elizabeth shakes her head. "One of life's mysteries," she says.

"Talk about your mixed messages," Neal murmurs, entranced by the way Peter is now rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, stretching lean muscle over ribs, biceps bunching, and is also flushed and looking almost pained with embarrassment.

"I know," Elizabeth sighs. "You just want to pat his head and kiss his cheek and fuck him stupid all at once."

"Neal has the attention span of a magpie," Peter says, though he still doesn't look at either of them.

"You're very shiny, Peter," Neal agrees.

Elizabeth stands up and walks around the coffee table to mess with the thermostat.

Peter and Neal watch her.

She gives them an impatient look. "Someone has to think of these things," she says. "And we should eat."

Peter shakes his head and sinks down onto the end of the couch. He props his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands, lips nearly touching one index finger. He gives Neal an appraising look. "Not a good idea. Not right now."

"It's that bad?" Neal asks quietly.

Peter looks away. "I don't know. It's bad enough that I don't want to worry about you choking on a dumpling."

Elizabeth smiles faintly, and circles the coffee table, giving Neal a wide berth, to sit next to Peter. She doesn't seem to be quite as worried as Peter clearly is, but there are faint lines around her mouth, and signs of strain around her eyes. She takes Peter's hand. He holds her hand with easy familiarity.

"No more stopping until we're done," Peter says tightly. "And you're going to have questions." He looks at Neal briefly. "Ask what you need to ask. I will tell you."

Neal nods slowly. He doesn't bother with the chair. He sits on the floor instead, back against it, one knee cocked up. After a moments thought, he steals Peter's glass of bourbon, almost empty, and swallows the last of it. "What kind of time are we talking about?" It isn't about the sex, although he's not going to pretend he isn't absolutely ready to get to that part. But what he actually wants to know is how much more there is to tell. He and Peter are both smart enough to be able to ballpark an estimate of talking by an estimate of time.

Peter looks at his watch. "If we don't stray from pertinent information too often, at least half an hour. Probably more like forty-five minutes."

So. A lot left to tell. Neal refills Peter's glass for himself, and tips the bottle at the two of them. Elizabeth shakes her head, but Peter pushes Elizabeth's half-empty glass forward, and Neal tops it up.

"Baton Rouge," Neal says.

"I was there for three days after you left. I made sure that all the evidence pointed to you arriving after I did, and indicated that you had taken _Young Man Among Roses_ directly out of the country." Peter says it without hesitation, and without guilt, as far as Neal can tell.

Neal sighs, and opens his mouth, but Peter holds up a finger.

"I didn't stay away from you, and I didn't stay away from the Hilliard," he confesses very quietly.

Elizabeth turns to look at him, and Peter looks back. It's obviously news to her, but she doesn't let go of Peter's hand.

It's significant information, but Neal's brain is stuck on the fact that Elizabeth, confronted by the fact that Peter had flatly lied to her, doesn't let go of Peter's hand.

"I knew I was in trouble," Peter says, dividing his attention between Neal and Elizabeth. "That the situation was potentially disastrous, personally and professionally. I had to see you do it. I had to watch it. The idea of you, Neal, brilliant and cocky and beautiful and inviting me to keep up. I was fixated on the _idea_, but I do that, I know, I knew, that I do that. It's one of the things that makes me good at my job."

"And you had to see the reality," Neal finishes for him. He understands. He is intimately familiar with the obsessional aspect of their relationship. He may be clearer on it than Peter is, actually. He hadn't really planned on telling Peter about his own forays into stalking, though Peter already knows about at least one of them. But he knows he will, now. He will tell them both. And this is definitely going to take more than half an hour.

"The forgeries, the securities, even the racketeering, they're all just examples of you being brilliant, talented, all illegal, but outright _stealing_ is." Peter stops, swallows, frowns faintly. "Tawdry. Beneath you. I had to see it." He picks up his glass and takes a drink. "I had to watch you do it. For the perspective, if nothing else."

"You knew I had done it before," Neal points out.

"I also knew that I could get shot if I joined the FBI," Peter says. "But it was entirely conceptual information until I actually got shot. There is a difference between knowing something is true and having it happen. I know you know that."

Since that sums up Neal's experience with prison, Neal can't exactly argue. He nods. "And what did you see?"

"Nothing that I didn't already suspect," Peter says. "That you could do it, that you did. That you smiled the whole time. That I was not going to stop you. That I was probably never going to stop you. It didn't change anything." He looks at Neal. "The only thing I got from it that I hadn't had before was my first good look at Kate's face."

"How close?"

"Fifteen feet."

Neal arches both brows. "You thought I'd see you."

"The possibility crossed my mind," Peter says, smiling a little.

"What would you have done if I had?"

"Nothing," Peter says. "It would've been your move."

Neal considers. "I don't think I could have resisted," he says honestly.

Elizabeth attempts, unsuccessfully, to muffle a laugh into a cough. "And you would have had no idea what to do, either of you," she says. "There would have been frantic making out right there on the street, and then you both would have rabbited."

"I'm pretty sure I could have figured out what to do," Neal says, injured. "There are a hundred hotels in Baton Rouge."

"And your girlfriend was waiting right there, and you had a stolen painting in your briefcase." Elizabeth reminds him.

"It was a miniature," Neal points out, though he isn't sure what he's trying to accomplish by it.

"Dat poenas laudata fides," Peter says, and Neal startles. He doesn't know why. It isn't the first time tonight that Peter has surprised him. It's not even the fifth.

"My praised faith procures my pain," Neal translates, and wonders how good Peter really is. Better than Neal had known, that much is clear. His grasp of subtle detail and ability to correctly interpret the obscure are also things that make Peter good at his job, and Neal has always played for those things, but he has only sometimes seen the results.

Neal has always been comfortably sure that he is just that good. It is becoming increasingly clear that Peter hasn't overlooked the things that Neal thought he'd missed. Not all of them, anyway.

And he should have known that. He has been working with Peter for a year, he has witnessed Peter's particular kind of genius on several occasions. Neal should have already drawn this conclusion, at least in theory.

"There is no way that was a coincidence," Peter says evenly.

"No. And I was right."

Peter winces, but doesn't make any attempt to deny it.

For a moment, Neal considers pushing it. Then he relaxes back against the chair and sips at his bourbon. "I was absolutely flirting with you, though. At the time, I mean. Professionally."

Peter's lips curl faintly, which is what Neal was going for. "Professionally," he repeats wryly.

"Totally professionally. Even if you hadn't been in Baton Rouge, I knew you'd hear about _Young Man Among Roses_. Even if you weren't able to put me anywhere near it, you'd suspect. You read Latin. You know me. Who else would even recognize it as flirting? I will admit that it's less flirty in hindsight, and more like a horrifying omen. But the thing that's really funny about it is I already knew you were married, then." he says tells them. And it is funny. From this side of their front door, he can be amused.

Peter's eyebrows rise half an inch, and Elizabeth gives him a curious look.

"I knew everything about you, even before I," he pauses, and tilts his head at Peter, "before I fixated. It would be great if I could say I was just researching you, like you researched me, but I already knew everything when I came to the city."

"In March," Peter says immediately. "You dropped off the face of the Earth. I thought something had happened to you."

"Something did. I took a vacation. I went Peter-watching." He gives Peter a friendly smirk.

Peter looks like he'd really like to say something, but isn't sure what.

"Aside from some use of illegal documents, I didn't do any work. I just watched. The second day I was watching, you went to dinner with Elizabeth, and instead of watching you, I was watching you both. And then I watched Elizabeth or you, and I had to pick. It was more convenient when you happened to be together."

"I'm two for two," Elizabeth says. She doesn't seem surprised in the slightest. "I have now been stalked by both of my significant others."

Peter blinks at her, and then smiles a little. "Since you were with me in Baton Rouge, I think we all technically stalked."

"No court in the land would convict me. And I was an accessory, at the very most." Elizabeth sticks her tongue out at Peter, and looks at Neal. "Did you decide if I was good enough for Peter?" she asks, but she does it kindly.

"I decided you were too good for Peter," he says, smiles. "You're too good for both of us, really."

"But the sex is phenomenal," she tells him seriously.

"I am in the lamentable position of still having to take your word on that," Neal says, and makes a face at her.

"Is that why you came?" Peter asks, apparently genuinely curious.

"That's why I came." It's easier to admit than he thinks it should be. "To see Peter Burke, to see what kind of woman Peter Burke would marry, to see Peter Burke's Life." Neal shakes his head. "That's why I came, and why I left."

Neal understands exactly what Peter means by being fixated on an idea, and, like Peter, he had known that there would be more to Peter than the idea. And, like Peter, he had to see it. "The two of you together were... unexpectedly a problem," he says, which is vastly understating the matter. "You were incontrovertibly permanent."

Peter is just looking at him steadily, no confusion, maybe a little sympathy. Comprehending.

Elizabeth frowns a little, more sympathy, less understanding. Neal isn't really surprised. Her whole life has been permanent. "You were with Kate for years," she says. It's an overture more than it is a question or statement. She knows she isn't getting it. She's inviting him to make it clear.

"The closest thing I have ever had to permanent was prison," Neal tells her, which is the honest-to-God truth. "A place where you get up in the morning, you complete set tasks, you eat three meals, you fall asleep at night, and you wake up in the same place every day. And then you do it all again."

Peter picks up his bourbon and stares down into the glass. Neal is dreading the conversation they are going to have to have about it, but he wants it to be over, too. He wants to lay out the reasons for Peter to let go of his guilt.

"People who live like I do don't have permanent," he tells Elizabeth. "I loved Kate, but neither of us had any illusions. The closest we were ever going to come to permanent was a base of operations. It sounds awful to you, I know, I can tell by your face, but there are benefits to living like that, and we both chose it. No one tricked either of us into our lives. We wanted them. We crafted them into what they were."

"Oh, honey," Elizabeth says.

"You're going to have to think of another endearment," he says, mostly off the hip, a way to alleviate some of the tension. "Peter is honey. I can't also be honey. It's confusing."

"I'm going to call you sweetie," Peter says, absolutely deadpan, and definitely deliberate. Neal is impressed.

"Which will be great until we're eating lunch in your office with Cruz and Jones, and you say 'Stop stealing my fries, sweetie!'" Neal says, and smirks at Peter's look of alarm.

Elizabeth smiles, too. "And then you can say, 'You never eat them all anyway, Papa Bear!'" and Neal's mouth drops open in surprise while Peter barks out an equally surprised laugh.

"You are so bad," Neal tells her, scandalized.

She nods, and grins at him with teeth. "I know. It's part of my charm."

"It is, it really is," Peter agrees easily.

Neal feels about three thousand percent better, though he has no real illusions. It's going to get worse before it gets better. It's the best that he can do, and he'll take what he can get.

"So," Elizabeth says. "You were what? Jealous?" She sounds doubtful.

"Not exactly. I was... flummoxed. I thought about Peter like he was like me. Not in the criminal sense, but in all the other ways that matter. Smart, fast, creative, meticulous, skilled. Professionally speaking, we were made for each other. I thought about him as permanent, too, in a sense. Permanent _for me_. I would always be running and Peter would always be chasing. So seeing him in his life, with you, permanent with you, and so obviously that I couldn't be wrong, it was. I was upset like an apple cart. I had to think about it. So I went to look at Castelseprio."

"Byzantinesque frescoes, Italy," Peter tells Elizabeth.

"I know Castelseprio is in Italy, Peter," Elizabeth sighs.

"Which is why you were in Turin in April," Peter says, sounding pleased.

"I didn't steal or forge anything in Turin," Neal says automatically. "How did you find out I was there?"

"Lucky lead," Peter says, and shrugs. "And I didn't know for sure. I suspected."

"How much," Neal begins, and then stops and rephrases. "How hard did you work not to get caught not catching me?"

Neal's ego aches a little at even having to ask that question, but he has to know.

Peter has some bourbon, but he answers easily enough, though they both know where the discussion is leading. "Hard, sometimes. Not that hard, other times. I didn't want to get pulled from the case. I didn't want someone else chasing you."

Peter pauses, but Neal doesn't say anything. They both know someone else probably wouldn't have been able to catch Neal.

"It meant I had to be careful. I already knew how to be one step behind you. I mostly just had to stay there. Get close enough to look like I was close, but not so close that I might actually collar you. I couldn't afford to just send the cavalry in another direction. At least not all the time. I had to know where and when you were, so I wouldn't be there and then."

"What were you doing in Malé?" Neal asks.

"Maldives doesn't extradite," Peter says simply.

Peter stops talking, and just like that, they are there. Neal can't quite ask, and Peter doesn't look like he's doing any better.

Neal thinks about asking about Maldives. As far as he knows, it's the one and only time they had both been somewhere, both known it, and neither of them had done anything about it. He wants to know, but it's an evasive maneuver. He decides to ask later. He chooses to believe they're going to have a later.

"I cased that warehouse fourteen hours before I arrested you in it," Peter says finally. Neal tips his head back onto the seat of the chair, and says nothing. "The press was still there, but it was clean other than that. No bonds, no ink, no paper, no Neal Caffrey. There was no ink on that press. No template. All the evidence pointed to you being long gone, that you had at least a full day head start. Even then, I gave you twelve hours to be sure before I called it in."

Peter is still and silent for so long that Neal thinks about picking up the narrative, filling in the blanks. He's going to do it, and he knows it. He's going to answer all the questions, even if Peter doesn't ask. But he has been guarding his secrets for so long that he isn't sure he knows how to make a confession. He never confesses, and he never, ever implicates.

But Peter doesn't make him struggle like that. He says, roughly, "There were twenty bonds in the warehouse, face value, twenty thousand dollars. They were worth about thirty-one thousand with interest. Pocket change. Enough to convict you, enough to guarantee that you went to prison, but not enough to make me believe there weren't a hell of a lot more that we didn't find. Why were you even there? Who set you up?"

It is ridiculous that Neal is relieved. It's a balm to his pride to know that Peter knows, and has always known, that Neal had not been that stupid. He had definitely been stupid, but not _that_ stupid. It's vanity, but it's true.

"You never asked," Neal says.

Peter sighs. "At that point, I assumed you were protecting Kate, but I didn't have any proof. And I didn't go looking for it. I couldn't stop you from trading your freedom for hers. I couldn't save you, and I couldn't make it worthless by finding her and arresting her, too. Even if I had planned to, there was no way to ask. Everything you did and said while in Federal lockup preceding your arraignment and trial was recorded, apart from privileged communication with your lawyer."

"Which is why you didn't see me in lockup. You didn't even question me." It comes out more accusingly than Neal means it to.

"I was there every day," Peter says. "I ran the team that interviewed you. I vetted the questions. I knew what not to ask, and how to get away with not asking it."

"But you didn't come see me," Neal says, and yes, maybe he's a little bitter.

"I was compromised," Peter says harshly, and braces his elbows on his knees to drop his forehead into his hands. "If anyone even suspected, they would have pulled me from the case, they would have re-interviewed you, and maybe asked the right questions, they would have backtrailed everything I had ever done, and even if they didn't find out my part in it, they would have probably found some of the things I never put down on paper. There was no way that could end well for you. If they had more evidence, if they could prove even one more charge, they could've locked you up for a fucking decade, and they probably would've had Kate, too. What was I supposed to do, Neal? You tell me, because I couldn't come up with better."

Neal can't either. But. "You had to know that agreeing to take me on as a consultant under your custody could potentially trigger the same kind of backtrail investigation," he says.

"Yeah." Peter doesn't elucidate, but there isn't really any need.

"Sixteen hours after we finished at the warehouse, I lost track of Kate," Neal says. "I called an associate, who said she'd gone back to the warehouse for the press. The plan was to leave it. They're hard to come by, but not impossible, and they're a bitch to transport. I knew you were right behind me. It didn't make sense for her to go there, but I couldn't risk it. I'd been working with Felizzi for six years, off and on. I didn't totally trust him, but I couldn't risk it."

"Luciano Felizzi?" Peter asks, and Neal gets to see something he never thought he would. Peter looks vengeful. He looks like he's considering the idea of violence, and enjoying it.

"Yes," Neal says. He doesn't try to moderate Peter's wrath, though he's as certain as he can be that Felizzi isn't solely responsible for that set of circumstances. He suspects any attempt would be futile, and it gives Peter someone other than himself to blame. Neal will tell him later, and maybe the two of them together can actually make some progress toward an explanation. "The bonds were there when I got there. I didn't have them on me. You got there about a minute and a half after I did."

"The press was wet," Peter says. "Those bonds were fresh."

"There when I got there," Neal repeats.

"Someone knows," Peter says quietly. "Someone knew when I was coming, knew when to call you, put you at the scene at just the right time. Goddamnit."

"It wasn't Kate," Neal says.

Peter says nothing, which is as good as an outright argument.

"I know it wasn't, Peter," Neal says.

"Do you know who it was?" Peter asks fiercely. "Do you know for sure?"

"No," Neal answers unwillingly.

Peter pointedly does not spell out the obvious flaw in Neal's logic.

"When you were convicted," Peter says with absolutely no attempt to conceal the fact that he's changing the subject, "Elizabeth and I." He looks at Neal. "We didn't have a lot of time," Peter finishes tightly. "I could be sure you were safe during arraignment and the actual trial, but there was no way to be sure of it in Federal Maximum Security."

There is no way to make a joke and lighten the mood this time. Prison is still too close. Neal had never really believed he would have to worry about prison, and he supposes he had believed, on some level, that if he did, well... White collar prison is Country Club Prison. Everyone has heard the comparison.

It had not been like that.

"We took steps," Peter says, like it's a confession.

"Steps?" Neal sounds surprised, even to his own ears, and he is. "What steps?" he demands sharply.

"I was asked to give suggestions on containing you, since you were a real escape risk. You're not a fighter," Peter says, low and taut and somehow still apologetic, like he thinks Neal is going to argue the matter. Neal doesn't. He knows exactly what Peter means. "You couldn't protect yourself."

"What steps?" Neal repeats.

"I suggested Victorville. It's got a high guard to prisoner ratio, no escapes since it was established, only four prisoner deaths ever, and houses very few violent offenders," Peter says. "I was betting that if you really wanted out, you could do it. Not easily, but you're smart. I couldn't suggest anyplace less secure. They were never going to put you anywhere that anyone had ever got out of."

"Peter," Neal demands gently.

It's Elizabeth who finally answers. "Seventy six thousand dollars," she says. "Over the course of almost four years."

Neal sucks in a breath. It isn't a lot of money, really. Neal has made off the cuff deals for less. But for Peter and Elizabeth, it's bigger than just big money. It's huge money. They had mortgaged their future, parting with that kind of money.

"And I slept with the warden several times," Elizabeth adds, as though the fact is negligible.

Neal's hands clench into painful fists. He has never actually experienced a killing rage in his life; he had not even known he was capable of it. "I am going to take him apart," he says, choked with fury. "I am going to dismantle his life." And he can do it. He can make sure Haskley spends the rest of his life in breadlines and shelters.

"He did what we paid for," Peter says, like it is nothing.

"No," Neal grinds out, "You don't understand. Peter, I had taken care of it. I had Kate take care of it, he took your money and... and _Elizabeth_, and I had already paid for my safety!"

Peter and Elizabeth exchange a long, unhappy look.

"She didn't," Neal says blankly, and sags back against the chair. Elizabeth is immediately pressed up against his side, totally ignoring the no touching rule, her warm, soft skin pressed against his bare chest. Neal lets her pull him into her arms, presses his face into the curve of her throat.

"She didn't disappear. She took an apartment close to Victorville, she stayed mostly on the right side of the law. I thought." Peter stops and clears his throat roughly. "I thought she didn't have the means. I thought she was really waiting for you. I thought."

"We checked," Elizabeth finishes for Peter. "Well, Peter checked. He was sure you would have something set up, or that you'd manage to do it once you got there. It wasn't the money. He just wouldn't believe that you didn't have a plan. He checked and checked and checked, Neal. He has a file on the warden, he tracked everything, including the money we gave him."

"I'm not as good as you," Peter says helplessly. "It isn't impossible that I missed something."

"Kate's not as good as you, Peter," Neal says miserably.

"Maybe she couldn't," Peter says. "Maybe something happened."

"Something you didn't know about?" Neal asks, and shakes his head, dismissing it. They both know how unlikely that is. "You didn't miss anything." He doesn't want to consider why Kate hadn't even bothered with something as simple as bribery; all evidence had supported the assumption that she'd done that much.

"_She_ might have been tracking it," Peter offers reluctantly. "She might have seen that someone was already covering that base. It's possible she was just saving your nickels."

It _is_ possible. Peter is right. But it's not likely that Kate could track anything Peter had gone to great pains to hide.

"You shouldn't have done that," Neal whispers.

It isn't the money, exactly. He can pay them back, not that he thinks they want that. It's that they had done it, and they had thought he would never know. Peter had believed that Kate was waiting for him, that Neal would go back to her, and that the only way he would ever even see Neal again was if Peter was, once again, chasing him. Elizabeth hadn't even _met_ Neal.

"Don't be stupid," Peter snaps, and then he is on the floor with them, pressed up against Neal's back with his arms around them both. "I would have done more," Peter confesses to the back of Neal's neck.

Elizabeth pulls back, her hands on Neal's shoulders to keep him at a distance, so that she can look him in the face. Neal understands that there is more, that Peter had done more, and he shudders a little with dread and grief and love. He had done this to them. It is not quite his fault, but that doesn't make it untrue.

"I thought Peter was going to break you out of prison."

Her tone is so flat, so certain, that Neal doesn't have the luxury of doubting her.

"I came home from work. You'd been in prison just under six months. There were four passports on the dining room table, just sitting there. Our faces, but not our names."

Peter tips his forehead to rest on the back of Neal's neck.

"Four," Neal repeats hoarsely.

"There was one for Kate," Elizabeth says simply.

"Peter," Neal says, agonized.

"Shut up, Neal," Peter says against the back of his neck, but his arms tighten fiercely around Neal for several seconds. "Just. Shut up."

"What would you have even done?" Neal whispers. "You thought I would leave with Kate, you thought you and Elizabeth would be _international fugitives_. What would you have even done!" He is almost shouting at the end.

"I don't know," Peter nearly shouts back. His voice cracks alarmingly, and Neal can feel the tension screaming in Peter's body, pressed tight along the line of Neal's back. Then Peter lets out a harsh breath. "Asked you for help before you left us. Asked you to set us up safely somewhere before you went. Stayed there so you could find us, if you needed a place to go."

"I had a trust fund," Elizabeth says calmly. "Since I was a little girl. I used some of it for college, and some of it to buy your safety. I transferred what was left into an offshore account under my maiden name. I also set up an account under the name on my passport at another bank. I don't know the things you and Peter know, but I knew I had to be able to get to it quickly, and that I'd have to take it all out at once. I didn't know how long it would take for the FBI to link the new names to us, but I didn't think it would take long. And I knew that you would know what to do, once we were out of the country. That I just had to keep the money moving until we had you, and you'd know how to keep it safe after that."

Peter lets out a harsh little laugh. There is not much amusement in it, but there is some. "That's my girl," he says.

"I knew it wasn't enough to live on, but it would get us by for a while. I was counting on you, Neal." The look she is giving him is steady and utterly forthright. "Peter was drowning, and I was not leaving him, but I knew my limitations. I could only keep him afloat for a while. I was counting on _you_. I was counting on the big pile of money and stolen goods that Peter has no evidence exists. And if it didn't exist, I was counting on you sticking around until you were back on your feet steadily enough to take care of us. I was counting on you."

All three of them are silent for several seconds.

"We never talked about it," Elizabeth says finally. "Not one word. A week or so passed, and Peter settled. The passports went away, and I never asked."

Neal knows what happened. The math is simple enough. "I sent Peter a birthday card."

"With a picture of a sock monkey on it," Peter says. "Claiming it was his cellmate, and it snored, and he hoped I was happy now."

"It was an excuse," Neal half-admits.

Peter turns him a little, and uses one finger to tuck a lock of hair behind Neal's ear. He kisses Neal's jaw just beneath the same ear. "I know. I knew." He looks at Elizabeth. "Once I knew he was okay, essentially okay, I could think about it without the same degree of..."

"Insanity," Neal supplies. He can feel himself shaking, but he can't stop it. Neither of them mention it.

Peter doesn't even deny it. "Yeah," he sighs. "And I couldn't do that to you, El. If something else had happened, if things had gotten worse." He shakes his head. "I don't know. But as long as he was mocking me at every holiday opportunity." He shrugs.

"Puerto Vallarta," Neal tells them. "That isn't all of it, but it's a lot. If you ever need it... I'll draw you a map."

"A map?" Peter asks, bewildered.

"The classics never go out of style, Peter," Neal tells him unsteadily.

"A-" Peter says, and then makes a cracking sound that hovers on the edge of hysterical, but then settles into a laugh, a real laugh this time, with actual mirth, though it's still a little choked and uneven. "I can't believe you," he says. "What are you, a pirate?"

"Absolutely," Neal tells him. "Among other things."

Peter doesn't laugh again, but he shifts to settle himself more securely around Neal. Neal doesn't doubt that it's partly for comfort. He also doesn't doubt that it's partly to put himself in a tactically advantageous position. If Neal tries to get up now, Peter will stop him. And Neal knows why Peter feels the need to have the power to do that.

There is really only one more thing to cover.

Neal reaches out for his tumbler of bourbon, careful not to dislodge the two of them, and takes a sip; Peter steals the glass out of his hand and takes a sip as well. The bottom of the glass brushes Neal's shoulder. He almost lets it go. He wants to, genuinely wants to. But what is the point of the entire discussion without full disclosure. If he doesn't ask now, he won't ever ask. And he'll always wonder.

"Did you buy Kate off?" he asks, as neutrally as he can.

Peter takes another swallow of Neal's bourbon, considers the tumbler for a moment, then tosses back the rest. He slumps against Neal a little, and Neal realizes that he isn't the only one shaking.

"If you ever run," Peter says very quietly, "don't count on having anything in Phoenix or Barcelona."

Neal doesn't say anything for several seconds. He is processing Peter's potential for deviousness. Peter has been doing nothing but enlightening Neal about his capacity for and facility with deception tonight. But this is the first time he's had to consider it in terms of it being used against _him_.

"That may be the only selfish thing you've done since we met, Peter," Neal says evenly.

Peter takes it without any attempt at defending himself.

It's Elizabeth who says, "Don't kid yourself, Neal. Everything he's done, everything we've done, has been selfish. You were the beneficiary and the motivation, but there was no altruism in play. Peter couldn't stand the idea of hurting you. But we did it for Peter as much as we did it for you. There are no saints or angels in this room."

"When?" Neal asks.

"The second time I put you in prison, I had eleven U.S. Marshalls and six FBI agents on my ass the whole time. And you left a trail like a fucking brush fire, Neal. I couldn't help you. Again. And then you hit me with that meeting, which was just ridiculously clever, by the way, and I was sure I couldn't get it approved. I worked my ass off to make that happen. It was like convincing an octopus that what it really needed was shoes."

"But you made it happen, and then you tracked down Kate," Neal guesses.

"Right before I came and got you out of prison. I just followed the trail you'd started," Peter tells him. "I could have taken her in. I was even supposed to be there. There was enough of a possibility that she was involved in your escape to justify the trip. She was in the act of using a stolen credit card at an ATM in the lobby of a hotel." Peter slides his arms around Neal's chest, both hands firm against Neal's ribs on either side. He doesn't even pretend that he isn't deliberately restraining him. "I told her to disappear. Don't come here. Don't contact you."

"And she told you to go to hell," Neal guesses.

Peter nods. Neal can feel it, but not see it. "She did. And I told her I knew where to find your emergency caches."

"And she didn't believe you. She wanted to check it out before she agreed to anything."

"So, the safe deposit box in Phoenix. It was the only one I was absolutely sure of."

"Nicholas Halden," Neal says. It makes some things much clearer. "And she went to Phoenix, and she contacted you, and you sent her to Barcelona."

"It was at the top of the possible list. And I told her that I wasn't sure. And that as far as I knew, that was all there was." Peter says. "And I didn't hear from her after that."

"But I did," Neal finishes.

Peter sighs. "I take it there was nothing in Barcelona?"

"No, there was plenty in Barcelona. Kate just knows me." He pauses, thinking hard. Finally, he decides on, "Why did you do that, Peter?"

"Because I'm an idiot," Peter says bitterly. "I should have known better. I should have known _you_ better. Of course you would try to find her. Of course I couldn't trust her to stay away. I just wasn't _thinking_."

He presses his forehead against the back of Neal's shoulder. His hands flex a little against Neal's ribs, an unsubtle message.

"Kate was a problem, and I wanted it solved. I wanted you out of prison. I wanted her out of your road. And then you were out, and you were working with me. And you were fantastic. It was even better working with you than it had been working against you. So much better that I was stupid with it. And for the first time, I could see a future for you that didn't involve wanted posters and roadblocks."

"You knew where she was the whole time," Neal says, without accusation. He'd suspected as much already. He just wants it confirmed.

"Not the whole time, but yeah. I kept an eye on her. As long as she stayed out of New York, I planned on staying out of her way. She was never my case anyway. The only thing tying me to her was her connection to you."

"And," Neal prompts.

"And then she came back," Peter says tiredly. "And I looked harder."

"And you found Mentor," Neal says.

"This is classified," Peter says, though his inflection is careful. He's going to tell. He just wants Neal to be aware. "This is so classified that there is no clearance for it."

"But you don't sound surprised that I know about it," Neal observes.

"I bugged you. You had access to everything the FBI had on you. I knew either you or Haversham would find something, somewhere. I needed to know whatever you found out," Peter says without even a hint of apology. "Which you already know."

Neal nods, and says, "You didn't really make an effort to hide it." He'd found it on the inside of his suit coat hem when he'd got home that same night. That coat still has a mark inside from the adhesive that the dry cleaner had been unable to get out.

Peter uncurls a hand from around Neal's ribs to settle it at the curve of Neal's neck and shoulder instead. His thumb brushes along the knob of Neal's spine. "Some of this I knew then, some of it I've found out since, and some of it I only suspect," Peter murmurs. "Six months before you were supposed to get out, Kate was recruited. It's not uncommon in other divisions."

"Computer Crimes has been doing it since the seventies," Neal agrees, turning this information around in his head. He didn't know. He didn't even suspect. But knowing it, he can't really say he's shocked. He's surprised, yes, but not shocked. "She did it for me," he says.

Peter doesn't say anything for a long moment, and when he does, his voice is hoarse. "Probably. My best guess is that you were their goal to begin with. That having her already set up would make you more likely to play nice. Kate's got skill, but you're so much better it isn't even funny. I can't know for sure, but that's what I think, and if that was the plan, it was pretty smart. You'd have got on board, if only to watch out for her."

"And that would be bad for me how?" Neal asks, but he thinks he already knows the answer. On this one, he's willing to bet Mozzie is right.

"Super secret government operations that are so classified that the level of clearance doesn't even exist on paper are bad news," Peter says impatiently. "The people that run those kinds of operations aren't answerable to anyone, and that gives anyone working for them no recourse."

"But you didn't know that yet. You just knew she was back."

"I dug around, looking for why she would come back, other than the obvious. I wasn't careful looking, either. I didn't realize I'd have to be; her connection to you made her fair game for me to investigate. I wouldn't have even had to stretch the truth about why I was looking."

"And your investigation stirred up OPR," Neal says, nodding.

"Sort of," Peter says, and sighs. "It definitely threw up flags, but what I was doing was just an excuse. Four months before you were supposed to get out, Kate's handler went missing. And then, so did Kate."

Neal stiffens, and Peter's hand soothes along the top of his shoulder carefully.

"She took a big risk coming to see you that last time," Peter says grudgingly.

"Fowler implied that he was investigating you," Neal says tightly.

"Oh, he was," Peter says, and Neal can hear the humorless smile in Peter's voice. "There was a report on file that I'd apprehended her after you went back to prison in which I cited no evidence to detain her. He suspects I had something to do with her getting out of Dodge, but he can't prove anything, and it's not like there was an APB out on her. The whole thing is too hush hush for that." Peter sounds disgusted. "I bet he was hot on my heels. He knows I met with her when he was in town, but he can't tell me anything above my pay grade, so it's not like he can interrogate me about it. And he knows what was said. They had that whole room rigged."

"You met with her," Neal repeats, and this time he is surprised. He is stunned. "You saw her."

"She called you at the office, Neal. Every call in and out of that building is recorded. It wasn't hard to track her down from there. I went to her hotel," Peter admits. "I waited for her to get back."

"What did you know, then?" Neal asks. His voice is dry and strained.

"I knew she was affiliated. I knew OPR was looking for her. And I knew they set you up. That they were trying to draw her to you, and it was working, and it was only a matter of time before they did it again. If she stayed, they were going to find her, and they were going to take you down to do it. Me too, probably, but definitely you. At the time, I thought you'd go back to prison. Now I'm pretty sure they would have offered you a deal. Now I think they were already pretty pissed at me for arranging to get you out and work with me, which made you pretty much untouchable unless you fucked up big."

"So they made it happen. They used Tulane to pull the heist, and erased the data from my tracking anklet."

"Two birds with one stone, but listen to me carefully here, Neal, because if you ever have to run, you need to be aware of this. I have zero evidence, I can't prove a damned thing, but I still _know_. You're the big target, not Kate. She's useful to them, but you'd be priceless. Don't get stupid," Peter says, clipped and short, and Neal knows that's what Peter sounds like when he's afraid, and not trying to hide it. "If you run, don't ever stop."

"I'm not going to--"

Peter cuts him off with a hand over Neal's mouth. "Don't make me that promise. I don't want it. If you ever have to run, you do it, you run and don't look back. I'll find you if I can. And if you ever can't run, and I'm not there, you go to Hughes."

He doesn't let go of Neal's mouth, though, so Neal can't argue, and can't ask why Hughes, and can't make any promises. After several seconds, he says, "Kate and I talked about you. It was just cover, about how I was trying to keep you honest, and how well you were doing, and how I thought her seeing you was a bad idea, and she needed to let you go."

Neal tries to open his mouth, but Peter ignores him.

"I pointed out the bugs while we talked about how the two of you meeting up again would just get messy. I gave her a plane ticket and a passport and a post it with my top three guesses as to where you had something hidden. She left while I was still there. I bought her time to disappear, and then I came home."

Peter slides the hand over Neal's mouth back down to his shoulder.

"Where did you send her?"

"Maldives."

"They don't extradite," Neal sighs.

"Yeah," Peter says.

"And where is she now?"

"I very carefully don't know that," Peter says starkly. "Every few weeks, I track down some imaginary leads, and hope Fowler has his merry men running around the country tracing them."

"You know he's eventually going to figure that out," Neal says, and lets himself sag back against Peter. Elizabeth swings a leg over one of Neal's thighs and leans into his chest, all smooth skin and warm curves and ginger. She tucks herself up under his chin, and he lets himself tip his face forward into her hair. "Especially if I really am their target."

"It doesn't matter. He probably already has. But he still has to chase them. He can't assume that every lead is always false. He has to take into account that there's the possibility that each lead is the one I'm actually using to find her, contact her. He's playing defense, for now, and as far as he knows, she is still his best chance of getting to you."

"And she's still in danger," Neal says. It's not a question.

"Unless I can actually put my hands on some real evidence, she's going to spend the rest of her life in danger," Peter admits.

"Why don't you trust her? Why would you do all of that to help her, when you don't even trust her?"

"I didn't do any of that for her," Peter says flatly.

"She puts you in danger," Elizabeth says, unexpectedly. "She disappears, you go to prison. She disappears, you break out of prison. She reappears, you risk your life and your freedom trying to track her down, and you get set up and sent back to prison. She talks to you, but she doesn't tell you anything. She is in some way connected with the disappearance of a federal agent. There are probably things I don't know about, but even at that. Peter has plenty of reasons not to trust your girlfriend."

"She needed me," Neal says, stung.

"If you thought just being close to you was dangerous, you wouldn't get within a thousand miles of me or Peter," Elizabeth says, casual and certain.

"You wouldn't be on the same continent," Peter says, just as certain.

Neal would like to argue it, but he can't. "It's not the same," he says.

There is a long stretch of silence. Neal waits for one of them to say it's exactly the same, or to reiterate all the reasons why Kate should not be trusted, but it doesn't happen.

"I have been all the way around this, Neal," Peter eventually says. "I've looked at it from every direction. The best way to help her is to keep digging into Fowler's operation until I hit something, and I'm already doing that. I'll catch you up and we can keep doing that. If you can come up with something better, I'll help you. But I won't cooperate with anything that will put the three of us at undue risk. I won't stop you if you chase after her. I won't even look for you. But if you do it that way, I can't help you. Once you flee custody, my hands are tied."

"I'm not fleeing custody," Neal snaps, and then shuts his mouth quickly. Because of course it sounds like that. In spite of everything else tonight, he still sounds like that. He turns enough to look at Peter. Peter looks worn, but not like he thinks Neal is about to bolt. He doesn't look worried, and Neal relaxes a little. He doesn't want them to doubt him. "And you'd totally look for me," he says shakily.

There is a beat of silence, then Elizabeth sighs. "Of course he wouldn't," she tells Neal gently. "He'd let you go without so much as a Google search. He won't risk you, even if you walk out on us." She leans harder into Neal's chest, and Neal tightens his arms around her automatically. "I, on the other hand, will sit on you if you try it. I'll use Peter's handcuffs. I'll find out if the nerve pinches Peter made me learn actually work."

Peter lets out a chuckle that actually sounds halfway normal, and slides the hand on Neal's ribs into Elizabeth's hair. "It's okay, honey. He's not making a break for it. No nerve pinches necessary."

"I thought maybe it wasn't going to happen, that it wasn't going to be love for the two of us." Elizabeth says, almost contemplatively. "And it was okay, I thought. I liked you so much it shocked me, and you're gorgeous, of course, and I never say never, but." Elizabeth pauses, and curls a hand around Neal's forearm. "I thought you might not be the love of my life, too. I thought I might not be the love of yours. Even when you were in jail, even when you escaped again, and I was insane with worry for both of you, I thought it wasn't like that. I was working, because I was going to go crazy if I didn't, and you called me. My husband was trying to track you down _again_, and he was Agent Peter Burke, FBI even at home, so I knew it was killing him, and you called me for help. Like you had the right. Like it never crossed your mind that I would turn you down. And I wouldn't, of course, I wouldn't ever have turned you down, but I would've done it for Peter. I was on Second Avenue when I knew I would do it for you, just for you, even if Peter was angry, and that I would help you if Peter wouldn't let you escape again."

She waves one hand helplessly, and Neal catches it, and takes a page out of Peter's book, and kisses her knuckles. She squeezes his hand.

"I don't know how it happened," she says, and she sounds genuinely bewildered. "These things don't usually sneak up on me, and it's not like I wasn't watching for it. Waiting, wanting it, even."

"Elizabeth," Neal says, even though he has no idea how to say anything that would be of any use.

"I'm not done," she tells him, and he realizes that a) she actually has a point to make, and b) she doesn't want to look him in the face while she makes it. He's so surprised that he almost pulls away from her, almost forces her to look at him, because he can't even believe she has something to say that she thinks is awful enough not to want to look him in the face while she says it. "I had already thought about how you could break Peter's heart, and about what I would do if you did, and how to manage a relationship between the three of us if you didn't. But I hadn't considered the possibility that you might break mine. And I had a few minutes to think about how good it would be, the three of us together, how it might be better than anything I've ever had, and I've had a good life. It wasn't until after you left that I started thinking about it in terms of me."

"And then you cried for forty-five minutes," Peter says, something like dawning understanding in his voice. "And I had to promise you eleven times that I'd get him back." Peter slides his hand through her hair. "Oh, El."

"Peter is used to losing you," Elizabeth says in a trembling voice that Neal instantly hates with vicious desperation. "He's done it a dozen times over the last eight years. Over and over, and maybe he's desensitized? Or maybe he knows you so well he accepts that as a part of you. I don't care. Losing you would be like dying for me, Neal. If it's anything less than your life, don't you _dare_ leave, and I swear to God, if I ever see your girlfriend, I'm going to try and break her nose."

"I promise," Neal says at once, and means it. He will promise anything to keep Elizabeth's voice from sounding like that. If she wants a Monet, he'll get it for her. If she wants this, he'll give it to her. Anything. "I'm not leaving, I promise." Then he adds, on instinct, "I don't want to go."

She nearly crushes his ribs at that, her little chin jabbing him in the solar plexus sharply, and Neal doesn't care. He's pretty sure he can live without his solar plexus. He tightens his arms around her, too, and behind him, Peter's cheek is resting on Neal's shoulder blade and his hand is tight on Neal's other shoulder.

"I'm where I want to be," Neal says. "I loved Kate, I want to help her, but I knew when Peter invited me here, I knew what I was doing. This is where I want to be, Elizabeth." Then, on impulse, he tries, "El." The shape of it fits neatly in his mouth. It sounds like it should have been there all along.

Elizabeth draws back and smiles at him. What little eye makeup she'd been wearing is a little blurry, but there are no signs of tears, and Neal decides to attribute it to the way she'd had her face tucked up against his chest.

"Good answer," she tells him, and touches his face. Peter kisses Neal's shoulder.

Neal feels a little like he's been kicked repeatedly in the chest. He is tired, and there is so much new information circling his brain that he feels dizzy with it. He can't regret the conversation. Not really. He'd have been happy to have gone to bed with them within three minutes of arriving, and saved all the revelations for tomorrow over strong coffee and pancakes, but he understands why this came first.

And he still wants them both, wants them so much he aches for them, but he would also really like to just slide between the sheets of their bed and sleep for about ten hours, preferably bracketed by their warm bodies. Behind him, Peter is leaning against Neal so hard that Neal is bearing up half of his weight, so he suspects he's not the only one.

"How cold is it outside," Elizabeth asks. Neal blinks at the non sequitur, but Peter straightens a little and shifts, probably looking over Neal's shoulder at Elizabeth.

"Pretty cold," Peter answers. "Maybe forty degrees, since the sun went down."

"So ten minutes won't kill you," Elizabeth says, incongruously cheerful.

"Three," Peter immediately counters.

"Five, or I'll tuck Neal into bed with a cup of tea right now," Elizabeth says, with finality.

"What are we talking about?" Neal asks.

Neither of them answers him. Elizabeth says, "Get your coats on, I won't make you stand out there half-naked." She gives Neal a coy look. "The neighbors would talk."

Peter stands up so quickly that Neal might have fallen over backward if Peter weren't already dragging him to his feet by his upper arms. "Shoes," he says.

"No way," Elizabeth says. "It'll be bracing. Get your blood moving and your brains back online."

"Like we're going to be using our brains," Peter mutters grumpily, but Elizabeth just smirks.

"Why are we going outside?" Neal asks, only to be ignored again. Peter picks up his rumpled, and still hopelessly ugly, suit coat off the floor and shrugs into it. Then he takes Neal's, hung neatly over the back of a chair, and holds it open for him. Neal looks at Elizabeth doubtfully, but she makes a shooing, go on motion with both hands, so Neal turns and slides his arms into his coat. Peter solicitously buttons Neal up before seeing to his own buttons. "Could I at least get a hint?"

Peter glances at Elizabeth, who somehow manages to convey a shrug and consent with the faintest tip of her chin.

"Sometimes I bring work home," Peter says. There is a wealth of meaning behind that statement, but Neal doesn't ask. Later. "If I don't manage to regain my humanity by the time we finish dinner, we pull a re-do."

It isn't so much that Neal is jealous of the ten years the two of them have spent working out the code of conduct that makes their marriage work. It's more a sort of envious curiosity. He wants to know these rituals, the inside jokes and the quiet certainty that they have together. He covets those things. He has to suppress the giddy satisfaction of knowing that he will be allowed to have them.

"Okay," he says, aware that he doesn't fully understand, but deciding he gets it well enough. "Let's re-do."

Elizabeth gives them each a light peck on the lips. "I recommend against huddling together for warmth," she tells them. "It's not that late. People will still be out and about." Then she herds them both toward the door, and they allow themselves to be herded.

Neal steps outside, and Peter comes out behind him and shuts the door. They exchange a look, then both turn to face the door. Peter looks at his watch.

"Five minutes?" Neal asks. It's probably closer to forty-five degrees, but it's cold enough to be uncomfortable.

"We're on the clock," Peter assures him. He shifts to one side so they can both stand on the door mat at the same time, protecting their feet from the icy cement of the stoop.

Neal waits for a minute or so. Then he asks, "So what does this entail exactly? What's she doing in there?"

Peter shakes his head. His jaw is set at a stubborn angle. "I don't know. Magic, maybe?"

Neal waits until Peter looks over to give him exaggeratedly dubious eyebrows. Peter grins, but shakes his head again.

"I really don't know. She can be as unpredictable as you. Some of the stuff she comes up with is pretty off the wall. Once she made me drive around for half an hour, and when I came home she had a basket of puppies."

Neal can't quite keep back a laugh. "Did it work?"

Peter gives him a sideways sheepish look. "Yeah. That's the way it happens. It almost always works." He looks pleased and expectantly certain, an expression very close to the warm surety Elizabeth had earlier directed at Peter. Their certainty in one another is both daunting and reassuring. Then Peter tips his head a little, like he's considering something seriously, and says, "Listen, though, don't let her make you come right away. It's her favorite trick."

Neal's eyebrows do incredulous without any direction from Neal. It takes him a moment to formulate a response, and when he does, it's, "And she would do that why? Isn't that defeating the purpose?"

"No, no," Peter says. "She can get you hard again insanely fast. It's like her super power."

Neal stares at Peter. "Her super power," he repeats.

"I know, I know," Peter says, and rakes one hand exasperatedly through his hair. "But sometimes the sex is great, and sometimes it's phenomenal, and sometimes it's outrageously good, and I feel like I got my ass handed to me afterwards, and that one is always the one where she ninjas me into coming right away."

"Ninjas you," Neal repeats.

Peter throws him a reproachful look. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"How exactly am I supposed to stop her, Peter?" Neal demands. He's pretty sure that if Elizabeth attacks him when they go inside, Neal is going to lie back and let it happen.

"You're the criminal mastermind, Neal," Peter says. "I'm just trying to give you a little warning. She's beautiful and smart and funny and I love her, but she is also secretly brimming with evil."

"Brimming with evil," Neal repeats, amazed.

Peter gives him a narrow look, and hooks his thumb in the direction of the front door, presumably to indicate Elizabeth somewhere inside. "Just remember that that is the same woman that helped you sneak into an FBI agent's home, while that home was under surveillance, while every law enforcement officer in this city was sitting on a picture of you, armed with nothing but milk and cookies. She is that clever _and_ she is that ballsy."

Neal opens his mouth to say something, and then realizes that Peter is absolutely right, and closes it.

Peter looks at his watch. "One more minute," he tells Neal.

"I'm freezing," Neal says.

"I know," Peter says, looking studiously at the front door. "With your hands in your pockets, your jacket gapes a little. I can see your left nipple. It's making me a little crazy."

Neal does not grab Peter and shove him up against the door in response to such a sweetly artless admission, but it's a near thing.

"Do you ever have to pull a re-do for her?"

"Sometimes. Nowhere near as often." He gives Neal a genuine smile, eyes bright with it. "I'm not as good at it as she is, but you will be."

"How long?" Neal demands, stupidly pleased by Peter's confidence, by the casual assumption that Neal will plot re-dos with him when Elizabeth needs one. He's freezing to death, but that's not why he's asking. He's half-hard again, and he's pretty sure his boxers are completely ruined at this point.

"Thirty seconds," Peter tells him, after consulting his watch. He turns full-body to face Neal, and Neal squares up with him automatically. "Go down on her the second she gives you the opportunity." Peter's voice is low and tight, and Neal goes fully hard without pause. "She doesn't let casual bedmates do that, no one has done it since we've been together, and I want to see you do it. I want to watch. She has a hot spot to the left of her clit, her left, just put pressure on it and use your tongue for the rest, she likes it best over the top."

Neal grabs Peter's wrist and squeezes tightly enough to feel the bones shift under his grip. "You have to shut up right now," he grates out, pained.

Peter gives him a dark look, and adds, "She's going to grab your hair, she's really pushy, and don't use your fingers right away, just tease her, just the tips, it makes her crazy."

Neal squeezes Peter's wrist harder, and Peter gives him a look of hot challenge. "I'm going to wait until you come inside her," Neal shoots back sharply, "so I can taste you in her."

Peter sucks in a rough breath, and opens his mouth. Neal wants to hear whatever he's going to say almost as much as he wants Peter to shut the hell up. Much more, and the neighbors really are going to have something to talk about.

Then Peter's watch goes off.

"I am going to break that watch some day," Neal says fervently.

"Don't be stupid, now we get to go back in," Peter says impatiently. Neal silently concedes the point as Peter opens the door.

Peter goes in first, and Neal follows him. It's eerily similar to the first time they had done it, and if Neal is slightly less giddy, he considers it a fair trade for the fact that he is also completely fearless. This time, he manages to get the door shut behind him, but otherwise it's almost a precise replay. Peter is blocking his view for a few seconds, then Peter steps to the side, and says, "Oh." He sounds slightly stunned, but Neal doesn't have a lot of spare attention to pay to it.

Elizabeth is perched on the corner of the dining room table, weight mostly on one hip, propped up on one hand. She's wearing Neal's very favorite pair of black strappy heels, legs crossed, feet resting on one of the dining room chairs. She is in the inky sheer and lace underthings Neal had speculated the existence of earlier. They don't hide a thing, but the shadowy fabric and strategically placed strips of lace do some very aesthetically pleasing things combined with the low light in the room, which Neal's artist's eye appreciates.

She is wearing a garter belt, with honest-to-God silk stockings. The lace strips at the tops gently indent the smooth, soft skin of her thighs. The seams of the stockings are perfectly straight. The vee of her thighs is in shadow, but her nipples are faintly visible beneath the lace of her bra, which barely rises high enough to cover them at all.

She's touched up her makeup, dark lines of eyeliner and sweep of mascara, and dark, dark red lipstick, but no foundation, a sultry nod to the desire to look perfect for them and the understanding that it won't matter for long.

She's also wearing Neal's hat, and Neal's vest, only the two middle buttons done up, so that he can clearly see the panties below and the bra above, but she is still _wearing his clothes_, and there is something about it that clenches hot and vicious in the pit of his belly and in the pleasure centers of his brain, something about _Peter's wife_ wearing _Neal's_ clothes.

The overall effect is so stunning that Neal ends up swaying on his feet in her direction, like he's somehow forgotten how to take actual steps to cross distances. Peter steadies him with a hand above his elbow. Neal is barely aware of the fact that Peter is relieving him of his coat.

"Rules?" he asks hoarsely.

Elizabeth shakes her head wordlessly, and Peter jerks open Neal's pants and pushes his hand right down under the silk of his boxers, briefly pressing along the length of his cock while dragging pants and boxers both down one-handed. Neal's breath shudders and rattles in his chest and out his throat, and then Peter is carefully removing Neal's socks, working around the anklet as though he's done it before.

Peter stands up and gives Neal such a thorough once over that Neal feels himself flushing under the heat of it, and then takes Neal's shoulders and turns him toward Elizabeth. "No rules," Peter murmurs, mouth wet beneath Neal's ear. And then, "Yours," with such generous conviction, unconditional benediction, that Neal cannot doubt the sincerity of it.

"Neal," Elizabeth says, and Neal doesn't resist in the least. The table isn't a good height for him, but he isn't even kidding himself that they are going to get far enough to go somewhere else, so he kicks one dining room chair snug against the wall and braces the one Elizabeth's feet are resting on against it at the diagonal. She spreads her legs, and he steps up and sets one knee on the table. She hooks her knee over his thigh, and he splays a hand on the table top over her shoulder, urging her down onto her back with nothing but proximity. His hat tumbles to the floor; Neal barely notices. "Now," she breathes. Her breasts are heaving, and Neal snaps open the two buttons of his vest and folds it open, dragging his hand from the waist of her panties to the bottom of her bra. "Now," she says again, urgent and sharp, and when he presses two fingers against her panties, he discovers them already very wet, and so sheer he can map out every inch of her with his fingertips. He shifts forward to slide his naked cock along the same path, and her hips snap up hard, and they both groan, low and needy.

"No more foreplay," Peter says harshly from right at Neal's elbow, and reaches between them, wrapping one hand around Neal's cock. Neal makes a hoarse sound that's almost loud enough to be a shout, and would have shoved into the curl of Peter's fist given a moment to do so. Peter doesn't give him a moment, though. The fingertips of Peter's other hand hook Elizabeth's panties to one side, and he lines Neal up, and Neal needs no further incentive. He nudges inside, and Elizabeth makes a choked and desperate sound. "All at once when she's like this," Peter tells Neal, and braces Neal's hip with his body when Neal stretches out both hands and grasps at the other edge of the table and pushes into the slick, welcoming heat of Elizabeth's body, hard but not rough, and all in one long motion. Elizabeth cries out, shocked and joyous, and her hips rock up to meet Neal, and her hands bite down on his hips, holding him steady and deep for several long, agonizingly pleasurable seconds while she twists up in tight, hot circles, their hipbones glancing against each other, the muscles locked around Neal's cock clenching and grasping with unbelievably perfect friction.

"God," Neal says, his back arched and his arms trembling with effort, and Elizabeth finally lets go of his hips and drags her hands up to tangle in his hair instead. She tucks one knee up close to his ribs, and Neal can feel the lace and silk of her stocking against his skin while she drags him down to attack his mouth. When he draws out, she makes a soft, angry sound against his lips, and its so impossibly hot that he shoves back harder than he means to, shifts her upward on the surface of the table, but she just moans, all rocking hips and hair-pulling hands and greedy mouth, and she is so wet for him, so slick and so good and so absolutely necessary that he forgets about moderation and just has her like that, hard and fast and welcome while she pulls his hair until he arches his neck so she can bite him hard on the throat and the collarbone, the lace of her bra scratching across his chest.

It's obvious when she's close, she goes taut and shuddering, knee digging hard into his ribs, trembling around his cock, and Neal shortens his thrusts, keeps them rhythmic and hard, and only becomes aware of Peter's hand slipping into her panties when his fingertips brush against the base of Neal's cock. Neal growls, and Elizabeth's back bows, and her hands fall away from Neal's hair, her head falls back, chin high, and her thighs splay wide. She unfurls like perfectly preserved parchment under Neal's body and Peter's hands; the only part of her still tight and hard and wrenching is around Neal's cock. Peter kisses her breasts and her throat, and she comes apart with a series of high, helpless cries that send Neal, shaking and groaning, right over the edge after her with a hot, snarling thrill of possessive triumph, that he's coming inside her, that she is taking him and he is marking her, in this way, as his.

Neal is still shaking, his arms still braced unsteadily above Elizabeth's shoulders, when she opens her eyes and looks at him. Her eyeliner is smudged, and her lipstick is smeared across her mouth. It's probably all over his mouth, too, and on his throat and his chest. The hollow of her throat and her collarbones are shimmering in the light, and Neal licks at them, one by one. The sweat on her skin tastes exotic, salt and flowers and the hot, dense air between them. She licks her lips, and says, a little slurred, "Wow, you look really really debauched."

"Good word," Neal says, still a little short on breath. "Equally applicable."

She smiles languidly. Neal sees there is a bite mark on the top curve of her breast that he's fairly sure he isn't responsible for.

As though thoughts of Peter's mouth have the power to summon him, Peter's hands close around Neal's hips and exert firm backward force. Neal cooperates, and he and Elizabeth both make a faint, disappointed sighing sound when Neal's cock slips out of her. Peter wraps an arm around the front of Neal's chest, which Neal mistakenly assumes is meant to steady him. What it actually turns out to mean is that Peter is going to flip him onto his back on the table next to Elizabeth with apparently very little effort. Neal barely registers how cool the table is beneath his back before Peter bends at the waist and pushes his mouth into the crease of Neal's thigh.

Peter inhales deeply, audibly, as though that was his entire purpose for putting his face there to begin with. Maybe it was, as he draws back again after just a few seconds, and then, without warning, licks up the underside of Neal's flaccid cock. Neal's hips hitch up, and Peter's hands close firmly around them as he twists his tongue around the head of Neal's cock. Neal is a little oversensitive, but it's not painful. Peter's tongue is gentle, and it takes Neal three or four seconds to realize that Peter's goal isn't to arouse, although Neal is horrendously, helplessly aroused anyway. Peter's mouth on his body anywhere would be hopelessly arousing, and Peter tonguing his soft cock is, in some way, unbearably _more_ arousing than nearly anything else he can think of. That's not Peter's goal, though. He is just tasting his wife on Neal's cock, just exploring that flavor, and if Peter's mouth wasn't enough incentive, that realization would be enough to have Neal hard and absolutely ready again immediately, if it were remotely physically possible. As it is, his hips rock in Peter's grasp entirely without Neal's permission, and his balls clench and twitch desperately.

It only goes on for a little while, no more than fifteen or twenty seconds, but it's long enough to make Neal consider asking Elizabeth to use her super power on him. Then Peter straightens, and gives Neal a sort of sharply amused look.

Then he takes a sideways step and presses his hands to Elizabeth's thighs.

"Peter," she says, a little oddly, something Neal can't pin down in her voice. Peter drags her closer to the edge of the table, and then uses both hands to press her thighs open. She doesn't resist, but she says, "Peter," again, higher this time.

"Oh," Neal says, getting it. "Oh, you're a dick, Peter," and Peter gives him a sly smirk without actually looking at Neal.

"I told you not to let her ninja you," he says, and then bends, and Peter is a little bit of a showman, Neal thinks, because he does it just slowly enough that Neal manages to get up and lean forward so he can see Peter's fingers sliding Elizabeth open, all pink and swollen and blood-flushed, and Peter's tongue flick down and into her to taste her, taste Neal, to taste them both together. Peter closes his eyes, and Elizabeth moans, high and stuttery. Neal's breath, which he'd apparently been holding, escapes his throat in a rush.

Peter slides a finger up alongside her clit, on her left, Neal notes with the part of his brain that remembers such details, and Elizabeth says, "Peter!" again. It sounds like an objection, almost, an uncertain one. That's what Neal hadn't quite been able to parse. They are normally so certain with one another, and this doesn't sound like that. Peter's finger strokes alongside her clit, and Elizabeth's hips stutter, a faint, shivering movement that is as much down and away as it is up. Peter laps at her for long seconds, his tongue exactly where Neal's cock had just been, one finger exerting pressure alongside her clit. Her hips are barely moving, just tiny, twitching shivers, but she's trembling all over now, her breath panting and unsteady. It isn't until Peter draws back slightly and Neal sees the fingertips of his other hand move up to replace his tongue, sees them slip around and below, but not actually _in_, that he remembers _go down on her and make her come twice, because she's so sensitive the second time she ends up halfway in tears_, and then Peter barely flicks his tongue across her clit and Elizabeth makes a quiet, thick sound that is very much like a sob. "Peter," she says, and then Neal can't really see what Peter is doing anymore because whatever it is, it is quite a bit more deliberate, and there isn't any space between Elizabeth and Peter's mouth anymore.

Neal can guess, though. A long, hard shudder starts at Elizabeth's hips and drags all the way up her body, and her head goes back, eyes clenching shut. "Can't, I can't," she pants, and Neal unthinkingly intercepts her hands when they move in the direction of Peter's head. She lets out a low, mewling cry, and another shudder rides through her. She bites her lip, her breasts rising and falling quickly, her thighs tensing and untensing, though she doesn't actually try to close them, doesn't try and get away, and whatever Peter is doing, it is slow and careful, judging by the measured movement Neal can see along the muscle of Peter's jaw. "Can't, oh," she whispers, breath hitching, "Peter, Peter," and acting again on unthinking instinct, Neal leans down and finds the bite mark he had left on her neck himself, and closes his mouth around it. He thinks about Peter's fingers teasing at her opening, and he doesn't bite, just sucks hard, but she immediately jerks into another series of shudders, and this time it's, "Neal, can't, Neal," and physically impossible or not, that is enough to revive him.

He stretches out on his side and threads fingers through her hair to turn her head a little, give him better access, and uses the other hand to skim the length of his palm just barely across one nipple through the lace of her bra. She gulps in a breath, and he does it again. She is shuddering without pause, something far too jarring to be considered trembling, and making short, harsh noises in the back of her throat. He presses his thumb to the bite mark on her neck so he can look at her, and she has both hands fisted in Peter's short hair, but she is definitely riding up into his mouth now. Her eyes are still tightly clenched shut, but there are tear tracks tracing from the corners down into her hair. She is flushed from her hairline all the way down to the tops of her breasts, and her mouth is open, her throat working, but the sounds escaping are small and strangled, and Peter was right. She is practically crying with it.

Neal is perfectly capable of dirty talk, and has employed it often and to the desired affect, but this isn't that. He opens his mouth to tell her that she's beautiful, that he loves her, that he hurts with how much he wants her, but what he says is, "Want to be in you next time he does this, El, want to tease you with the head of my cock until you're just like this, on the edge and so needy with it, and then give it to you hard, make you yell for me..."

Then she does yell, cutting him off, and Neal bites her, overlaying the imprints of his own teeth, and she jerks hard all over, all tension and tightly coiled pleasure, the opposite of the sweet unfolding of the last one. Neal presses his palm to her ribs to pull her tight against the front of his body while she shakes through it, a long, rough orgasm that has her shouting from between clenched teeth before it is done with her.

When she finally eases, her eyeliner is a wreck, her mouth is wet and bitten, she is disheveled and flushed, and she is so irresistible that Neal drags her up enough to kiss her cheeks and her forehead and her chin and her eyelids. She smiles without opening her eyes and swats at him until he lets her collapse back onto the table, still breathing hard and trembling faintly. "Go away," she orders, voice all low and throaty from the shouting, which is improbably sexy. "I get a breather. Go play with each other."

Neal laughs, and turns to grin at Peter, but Peter is not smiling at all, and is already reaching for Neal with urgent hands. Peter is still wearing his pants, Neal sees, so of course Peter has not yet had an orgasm, and of course Peter is not smiling. Also, Peter's mouth and chin are wet and shiny, and Peter has him by both thighs and is dragging him across the tabletop toward him, Neal's sweat-sticky skin making little squeaky-skidding sounds. "Pants," Neal says, but catches Peter's face between both hands to lick at his lips and chin without bothering with them, tasting the musky, wine-dry flavor of Elizabeth and the flat-metal bitterness of himself. Peter catches his lips, and he tastes of Elizabeth and Neal and bourbon, and Neal's groan drags at the inside of his throat.

Peter pulls Neal right off the side of the table, then steadies him on his feet, and Neal attempts to work the fastenings of Peter's pants while Peter palms Neal's ass and all the way up his back, and then fists both hands in Neal's hair and drags his head back just like his wife had, to bite at Neal's neck and suck on the curve of his shoulder. "Jesus, Peter, your fucking pants," Neal begs, and Peter moans into his throat and pulls Neal's hair harder, and bites at the hinge of Neal's jaw.

"Say fucking again," Peter demands, and then immediately kisses Neal, making it impossible, teeth dragging at Neal's bottom lip. Neal chases the smoky flavor of bourbon across Peter's tongue, and Peter pulls one hand out of Neal's hair to hold the back of his neck, thumb dragging along Neal's jaw. Neal can't even move his hands between their bodies, so he abandons Peter's stupid fucking pants and splays both hands across Peter's chest, fingertips tracing the knots and lines of muscle and bone. Peter gets their hips lined up somehow, and there isn't much friction but there is a lot of heat, and Neal is going to get cheap fabric burns on his cock, but Peter's nipples are small and flat, and come up nicely under Neal's thumbs into hot, tight little points, which makes Peter gasp, his mouth going momentarily slack against Neal's.

"Fucking," Neal groans against Peter's lips, "Fucking fuck, now take off your pants," and Peter laughs and moans and kisses Neal all at once, and Peter's hand on Neal's neck drops down to the small of his back, pulling him in tighter. Neal can feel the length of Peter's cock through his hateful pants, solid and warm and snug up against Neal's. "I want," Neal mumbles into Peter's mouth desperately. "Peter, I want."

Peter makes a harsh sound, but he lets Neal go abruptly, and actually takes a step back, like he can't trust himself if he's too close. Neal totally gets it, and lets Peter take care of his pants without taking his hands off of Peter's chest, feeling the muscle and sinew flexing and working beneath his palms with spiky jolts of lust. Peter's ill-fitted pants slide down off his narrow hips as soon as they're undone, and Peter is wearing black boxer briefs, the outline of his cock completely realized beneath the stretch of fabric, and Neal's right hand slides right down to cup it without pause. "Neal," Peter says, and he sounds like he does when Neal has done something on a case that is either brilliant or of ambiguous legality, except low and deep and rough, and Neal lets Peter drag him back in and crash their mouths together.

Neal arches his hips into the back of his own hand and shoves his hand hard against Peter's cock, feels the dampness of Peter's underwear against the heel of his palm. Peter's hips jerk forward, nothing like the deliberate roll of Elizabeth's hips, all reckless pressure and enough want to render any resulting discomfort irrelevant. "Let me, I want," Neal whispers, and Peter's fingertips dig into the muscle between Neal's shoulder blades.

"Anything," Peter says, and Neal drops to his knees before Peter can change his mind or take it back. "You," Peter says, and Neal drags Peter's underwear down and immediately tips his head to mouth along the shaft of Peter's cock.

"Me," Neal agrees, hardly aware of what he's saying, and tugs Peter's cock down to an angle he can use. Peter bites out a short cry when Neal sucks the shine of precome off the head of Peter's cock, but goes absolutely silent when Neal actually sucks him in. The feel of Peter's hand in Neal's hair is familiar now, and totally welcome, though there is no hair-pulling, just the gentle spread of Peter's steady grip cradling the back of Neal's skull. Peter tastes of sweat and skin, and the thick musk of arousal that comes from his cock having been too hard for too long, leaking precome into fabric and pressing it into his skin. It is so good, Peter is thick and silky and perfect, and Neal moans and presses his palms against Peter's thighs.

Peter isn't afraid to thrust into Neal's mouth, Neal had thought he might not, that Peter might be too gentlemanly to do such a thing, but Peter holds Neal's head steady and presses forward without hesitation, short and careful thrusts, but not tentative at all. The big muscles of Peter's thighs clench under Neal's hands, and Peter says, "Yeah, yes, Neal," and Neal uses lots of tongue and hollows his cheeks in appreciation. Peter stutters out a barely recognizable repetition of Neal's name, and then says something completely unintelligible that Neal is nevertheless sure is absolutely filthy. Neal surges forward with every intention of deepening Peter's careful strokes, but Peter starts backward immediately. "Don't, you, I," Peter stammers, and Neal growls out his displeasure.

"I've been able to take it all the way since before I could legally drink, Peter," he snarls, and is deeply, hotly satisfied at the stark rush of desire on Peter's face, hot flush and wild eyes. Peter crowds close again, backing Neal up nearly to the edge of the table. "Fuck," Neal says with spiteful lust, and Peter pushes right into Neal's open mouth before the syllable really makes it all the way out. Neal tips his head back and lets him, curling his tongue and breathing harshly. Peter grinds out a sound that is so hot that Neal drops his right hand down to his own cock, but Peter _still_ doesn't really push hard, like he can't, like it's too ingrained a habit, and Neal will teach Elizabeth to do it, it's all about the angle, and even if Peter doesn't, won't, Neal is going to come as soon as Peter does, is going to shoot right between Peter's feet, and likely all over Peter's pants, which are still bunched around his ankles, and it will serve the fucking things right.

"Give me your hands," Elizabeth says from right above Neal; her voice is still smoky and rough, and Neal doesn't even think, just puts his hands up and lets Elizabeth wrap her small hands loosely around his wrists. His cock is immediately aching and resentful, but the rest of him is totally fine with it. He can go either way with restraint, but Elizabeth holding his wrists while Peter's cock is in Neal's mouth is nothing but crushingly arousing all the way across the spectrum. "Peter," Elizabeth murmurs, and Peter's hips stumble a little, but don't stop. Neal opens his eyes, and Peter is looking down at Neal like Neal is absolutely unbelievable, like he might not be real, and Neal moans at it, his hands clenching into fists, and if Peter never stops looking at him like that, Neal will be grateful forever. "He's caught," Elizabeth says, and Peter goes still this time, and he looks up, presumably at Elizabeth. Her hands tighten briefly around Neal's wrists. "You caught him," Elizabeth says, quiet but carefully articulated, a very slight emphasis on the first word.

Elizabeth is a genius, Neal owes her a blind favor, because Peter jerks, whole body, and his face twists, and he makes a breaking sound as he tightens his hold on the back of Neal's head and then pushes deliberately forward, not rough, but determined, and Neal fights back that first instant of panic when he loses his air, and then whines around the breadth of Peter's cock, hotly delighted. Peter's other hand comes up to curl along the side of Neal's throat, his thumb under Neal's jaw pushing his head back a little further, and Neal's hips hitch up into the air pointlessly.

Peter manages four long, deep pushes before he says,"Neal," soft, and comes in hard, fast spurts while Neal presses his tongue along the bottom of Peter's cock so he can feel it jerking in his mouth while he swallows.

Peter draws back slow and careful, and Neal swallows hard a couple of times to avoid coughing a little, just in case Peter gets skittish about it. His mouth feels hot and his lips feel chapped, his whole body is vibrating with the need pooling in his groin, but he also feels smug and satisfied and happy. He tips his head back to look up at Peter, and is a little surprised to find Peter looking back with serious, dark eyes.

Peter slides down to his knees gracefully. He seems more certain in his body, somehow, naked, or possibly his poorly fitted suits merely conceal. He sets his knees to either side of Neal's, and runs his hands up the undersides of Neal's biceps and forearms, all the way up to his wrists. Goosebumps erupt over every inch of Neal's skin, and Peter wraps his hands around Neal's wrists with Elizabeth's hands. "If you were born three centuries ago, you wouldn't have been a conman," Peter tells him solemnly. "You'd have been a whore."

Neal's eyes widen. He's never been called a whore before, and there should probably be some anger or at least a tiny little bit of indignation, but Peter is tracing the angles of Neal's face with his eyes, and there is no anger, no indignation. All there is, is curiosity, because he knows Peter, and this is something Peter has thought about. Neal can tell, it's on his face, as though Peter is telling Neal a carefully kept secret that he holds dear.

"You'd own a villa in the south of France and a palazzo in Italy and an estate in England, all given to you by people who know they can't keep you, but just can't stop themselves from giving you safety and prosperity and the protection of outward respectability, with the hope of pinning you down so they know where to find you again. You'd only see powerful men and wealthy widows and royalty, and they'd give you diamonds and perfect clothes and Rembrandts just to be seen in public with you, a few hours of your attention, the chance to touch your skin. You'd spend your whole life basking in the admiration of everyone who ever meets you, and you'd want for nothing, and you would always be free."

Peter's left hand drops away from Neal's wrist and he leans forward to wrap it around Neal's anklet. He has to nearly rest his chin on Neal's shoulder to reach it, his cheek three inches from Neal's. Neal turns to look at Peter's profile. Peter's eyes are closed and his breathing is unsteady.

It's a kind of love poem, or as close as Peter knows how to get to one, and it's a little twisted, but that's okay. Neal understands the nature of their twisted relationship, present circumstances notwithstanding, so he gets it. He will think about it later, the way that Peter so clearly has thought about it, and try and follow Peter's trail of logic and test his conclusions. Sometime after that, when they have all settled into the kind of certainty that Peter and Elizabeth already share, Neal will tease him about it.

Right now, he is merely certain that if Peter apologizes to him, Neal might have a rage blackout to disastrous consequence.

He kisses Peter's cheek. "It was worth it," he says. "All the years of running, every day in prison, the last year alone was worth it. You have to trust me, Peter. I would do it again. I would do it exactly the same way." It twists in his chest a little to say it, to admit to himself that he does want to help Kate, he does love her still, if not the same, but he will abandon her to her fate if that's what it comes down to. He will trade her for them, and it will hurt, but he won't regret it. He doesn't regret it.

Peter looks at him, the familiar scrutiny, and Neal lets him. He has nothing to hide.

Peter's smile is slow and real, and uncomplicatedly happy. Neal's chest goes warm and tight, and he feels faintly ridiculous, but then Peter leans in and kisses him softly, and it is slow and open-mouthed and heated, but for the first time it isn't urgent. It's lush and it makes Neal feel a little giddy or light-headed, or possibly stupidly in love, and Peter cups his face in both hands and traces Neal's eyebrows with his thumbs. Neal huffs out a laugh against Peter's slick lips, and Peter rumbles amusedly back at him.

Peter draws back about a quarter of an inch, and he might have been about to say something, but Neal says, "Besides, Elizabeth would have been a Duchess or something. She would absolutely have bought me for you."

Elizabeth laughs, squeezing Neal's wrists, and Peter pulls back a little further.

"And in somewhat related news, I know you have _The Storm on the Sea of Galilee,_ somewhere," Peter tells him fondly.

Neal doesn't deny it. Instead, he says pointedly, "Do you know I have an erection, and it's right here?"

Peter looks down between them at it, and is grinning when he looks back up. "I do. I investigate things for a living, you know."

Neal scowls, and tries to make his eyebrows extra wrathful.

Peter laughs, which is in no way helpful.

Neal reconsiders his strategy, and goes with the dark horse of actual honesty. "I want to come with you touching me."

It sounds far more longing than Neal means it to, but it works.

Peter looks at Elizabeth, and asks, "Fast or slow?"

Upside down, she appears to be genuinely torn, eyebrows scrunched together in discontent. Finally, she says, "Fast," and then smiles down at Neal. "Fast as we can?" She is looking at Neal, but she's talking to Peter.

Peter grins back at her disconcertingly.

Elizabeth lets go of Neal's wrists, and Peter drags Neal to his feet by his upper arms. He is on his back on the table again before he realizes that he should have been nervous thirty seconds earlier.

"Do you have...?" Peter asks.

"Yes, do you want...?" Elizabeth replies.

"No, you, I'll..." And Peter wraps his hand around Neal's cock and gives him two nice, hard strokes.

Neal makes a tiny sound.

"You get to be the buffet," Peter tells Neal with a near smile, and then bends and sucks hard at the head of Neal's cock, one hand curled around the base and the other pressed flat to Neal's belly.

Neal opens his mouth, not to say anything, he's fairly certain, just to breathe heavily, but it's open when he feels cool, slick, small fingertips pressing at his hole, and ends up groaning out, "Oh my God," very loudly. He spreads his legs and bends his knees automatically, and Peter has to shift his body upward a little to compensate.

Peter chuckles, fantastic as he slides his mouth down Neal's cock until it bumps into his fist, and Elizabeth has very tiny fingers, and she presses one into him quickly, though it has actually been kind of a while for Neal.

Neal flushes, he feels it happen, hot blood to his face and neck and sweat prickling along his temples and throat and armpits and spine and belly. Peter's hand strokes along his stomach soothingly, but the effect is rendered useless when Elizabeth demonstrates uncommonly good aim, and Neal jerks, physically and vocally, with pleasure, and only Peter's hand wrapped around Neal's cock keeps him from doing everything in his power to shove it further into Peter's mouth.

Neal's mouth is inexplicably open again, and he has no idea what sounds he's making, but Elizabeth says, "Good," and, a little hitchingly, "Wow, he is so pretty," prompting another hot rush of arousal to prickle at Neal's inner thighs and the small of his back. Peter is pressing him down against the table and working both his hand and his mouth around Neal's cock, and Elizabeth slides another finger into him. There is a little stretch and burn with the second one, but it is so good. Peter is sucking him hot and sloppy, and it's so good that Neal can't do anything, it's impossible, there is no reciprocation or cooperation or anything, just sweating and shaking and being pinned to the table with Peter's mouth and Elizabeth's fingers.

"I," Neal says, and Elizabeth pushes in harder, fast and perfect. Neal's hips jerk up so hard that his ass leaves the table, and Peter shifts the hand on his belly to one hip and slams him back down, which is apparently enough to make Neal choke out a thick groan.

"We've got you," Elizabeth murmurs, and Peter uncurls his hand from around Neal's cock and cups Neal's balls instead, and Elizabeth isn't making any attempt to stretch him, is just nailing his prostate again and again. Peter apparently can't take it all either, but he takes enough that Neal's vision goes swimmy and Neal shouts, wordlessly, helplessly, and comes so hard he bounces the back of his head off the table, though he doesn't feel it.

They both ride him through it, and Neal is only feeling a little orgasm-drunk still when Peter pulls carefully off his cock. Neal blinks and tracks him kind of mindlessly, because Neal's eyes are open and because Peter is moving, no real reason, until Peter turns around the corner at the end of the table. Elizabeth slides a hand around the back of Peter's neck and pulls him down, and Peter's jaw shifts, and Neal snaps into full awareness when they both swallow, his brain tripping forward to catch up. He wonders dazedly if he will get used to it, at some point, become acclimated to the way it feels to have his whole body twisting with desire while he's so wrung out that he can't do anything about it.

Elizabeth and Peter kiss for a while, Peter's hands on Elizabeth's hips, her arms slung up around his neck while she leans into his chest. It's clearly a familiar pastime, their bodies sympatico, and Neal is both impatient to have that with them, and content to wait.

Elizabeth pushes slightly away first. "No more sex," she says firmly.

"Honey," Peter says, looking faintly outraged.

"I am starving. Sustenance takes precedence over orgasms."

Peter looks like he might be thinking about arguing that one, and he looks at Neal.

Neal raises both hands, prepared to declare himself Switzerland, and his stomach growls loudly.

Peter looks betrayed. "Thanks a lot, sweetie," he grumbles. Elizabeth's lips are twitching, and Neal bites down on his bottom lip in an unspoken mutual attempt at restraint. "Don't say it, either of you," Peter says.

Neal makes innocent eyebrows, and Peter rolls his eyes.

They don't even bother to reheat the Chinese food. They eat naked, standing in the kitchen, as Elizabeth refuses to put anything on the dining room table before it's seen serious disinfectant and wood polish. Well, Neal and Peter are naked. Elizabeth is almost decent, so of course they tease her for eating cold takeout in her underwear while wearing three inch heels. She asks them if they are both very very cold.

Neal and Elizabeth use the provided chopsticks without considering other options; Peter claims to be too tired and uses a fork. Neal tries to think whether or not he's ever seen Peter actually using chopsticks, and can't be sure. Peter drinks two glasses of water straight from the tap. Neal and Elizabeth split a guava juice mix Elizabeth has in the refrigerator.

Peter tours the entire ground floor, checking window and door locks. Neal follows him, picking up clothes. Elizabeth follows Neal, turning out lights.

Upstairs, getting Elizabeth out of her underwear turns into laughing and casual necking. Neal kisses the insides of her knees when he rolls the stockings down her legs, and finally gives in to his year-long desire to lick her ankles. Peter kisses her belly button as he slides the garter belt down past her hips. If any of them were any less tired, it would probably have lead to more sex, but they are, so it just leads to Peter absently groping Elizabeth's ass while he directs Neal's exploration of all the spots where she is ticklish, and Elizabeth giggling a lot.

Their bed is big enough for three without even squeezing, though Neal isn't sure how it will hold up if there are three people on it all attempting to have sex together. He imagines accidental elbows to the ribs and knees to the groin, and then decides that Peter and Elizabeth have clearly done this before, so he'll assume their bed will stand up to it until proven otherwise.

The bathroom is unexpectedly co-ed and mutually accessible at any time, and there is a lot of casually naked cross-traffic between the bedroom door and the bathroom door across the hall. Peter washes his hands, and then his face, both with the dispenser of antibacterial lilac scented soap on the ledge above the sink. Elizabeth offers to share her face wash and moisturizer, and Neal ignores Peter laughing at him when Neal takes her up on it.

Peter hands him an unopened toothbrush, and they brush their teeth with their shoulders bumping companionably. Elizabeth wanders in wearing a men's pajama top, her face scrubbed clean and pink, and elbows them until they let her in between so she can brush her teeth, too.

Peter tells Neal that Elizabeth will now become obsessed with Neal's dental hygiene, welcome to the club. Elizabeth tells Neal that Peter grinds his teeth. Neal watches bemusedly while Peter rinses out his mouth with mouthwash, and then brushes his teeth again. When Neal arches his brows, Peter tells him Elizabeth doesn't like the taste of the mouthwash. Neal decides against asking why he doesn't just brush his teeth once, after. He suspects Peter will tell him that things don't work that way in the real world, and then doggedly pretend not to see the irony.

When Neal comes out of the bathroom, Elizabeth directs him firmly to the middle of the bed. Neal does not protest.

Peter pees with the door wide open.

Neal tells Elizabeth that the magic is gone. Elizabeth kisses him and tells him he'll be happier without it.

Neal suspects she's right.

When Peter climbs into bed, Neal learns that there is a list of sleep protocols, which include not putting his feet on Elizabeth, not lying with any limbs draped across Elizabeth, and if there is spooning, Elizabeth gets to be the big spoon. There's also a rule about morning breath, because Peter apparently likes to make out first thing in the morning, and Elizabeth likes fresh breath. There is a roll of cinnamon Certs on each bedside table. Each table also has its own alarm clock and its own glass of water. Peter puts his watch on his bedside table, Elizabeth puts her necklace on hers, and Peter and Elizabeth have a brief, heated tug of war over Neal's watch. It ends up on Elizabeth's bedside table on the grounds that it's closest to the door.

Elizabeth reaches out and turns out the light, and all three of them lie on their backs in silence for a moment.

Then Peter rolls onto his side and drags Neal into the little spoon position, and Elizabeth rolls to face Neal and tugs at one of Neal's hands until their fingers are tangled together.

"I love you," Neal says, right out loud.

 

EPILOGUE

When Neal wakes up, he's in bed alone, and the room is bright. He vaguely remembers someone getting out of bed while it was still dark, and also being pushed off Elizabeth for illicit arm-draping at some point. He stretches out like a starfish on the bed and smiles stupidly at the ceiling for a few minutes, just to get it out of his system. He thinks this plan will likely come to naught, but that's what makes it a challenge.

When he sits up, he sees there's a folded white card on the bedside table next to his watch. It's a place setting card. He picks it up, and reads _NEAL CAFFREY_ in Peter's handwriting. Underneath, in Elizabeth's smaller, case appropriate handwriting, is _(Good morning, sweetie!)_. He flips it open automatically, and inside is written:

_ELIZABETH WOULDN'T LET ME WAKE YOU UP._

_'Wake you up'_ is crossed out, and '_molest you_' is written above it, Elizabeth's handwriting.

_IF YOU DON'T COME DOWN BY 10 A.M. I WILL EAT YOUR BAGEL._

Neal checks his watch. It's 9:36.

He puts the card back on the bedside table, smiles stupidly at it for a few seconds, and then spends a couple of minutes thinking around the problem of how revoltingly cute they collectively are right now.

The only solution Neal can immediately come up with is never being in public with either of them, which isn't really viable.

"Conman," he tells himself quietly. "This is doable."

Eventually, he gets up, goes to the bathroom, washes his face, and considers the two robes hanging on hooks on the back of the bathroom door. One is gray flannel and has dark red paisley print. It is hideous.

The other is satin, blue, and embroidered with a Chinese dragon.

Neal puts it on. It's very short on him, but he will die before he wears Peter's dried-blood paisley robe.

He brushes his teeth, smells Peter's mouthwash curiously -- and it is eye-wateringly strong, he's coming down in Elizabeth's corner on this one -- and puts his toothbrush back in the little ceramic holder next to Elizabeth's.

As he walks back by the bedside table, he glances at the place setting card and his watch and stops.

He picks the card up and turns it over. On the back, at the very bottom edge in teeny print, it says: _Peter set your watch back.♥ _

He barely makes it downstairs in time to snatch his bagel out of Peter's hand, and vindictively only gives Elizabeth good morning kisses.


	3. Pertinent Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal gives her a very serious look. "Peter risked his entire career -- leaving aside everything before I went prison -- to take me on as a consultant. We both know that could have sent us both back to prison together. He never has to make another romantic overture to me for the rest of his life."

Neal wears Elizabeth's robe for most of the morning. Even once he showers and puts his watch on, he wanders back downstairs in it, apparently totally at ease with the fact that it doesn't even reach his knees. He looks so lithe and boyish, freshly scrubbed and damp haired and bright-eyed, that Elizabeth instantly wants to push him down and muss him up. She compromises by running her fingertips along the line of his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. Neal tips his head to look up at her, lips curled sweetly. She drops a kiss onto his lips, too, and he catches a lock of her hair between his fingers, rolling it lightly for a few seconds.

When they look up, Peter is watching them, expression more or less normal except for the slight curl to his lips and the softness in his eyes. "I've got stuff you can wear," Peter offers, but he's eying the expanse of skin visible along the inside of Neal's right thigh when he says it, and Elizabeth is pretty sure Neal isn't missing that fact. Peter sounds faintly irritable, but Elizabeth knows him, and can hear the nerves in his voice. He isn't a man who worries about what others think of him, but this is different. Everything about Neal is different for Peter.

Neal rolls one shoulder. "Says the man that tried to steal my bagel," Neal murmurs and steals a drink of Peter's coffee from over Peter's shoulder. Neal hesitates, barely a second, and then leans in and kisses the back of Peter's neck lightly. Neal can't see Peter's face, how Peter looks a little pink and pleased. Elizabeth thinks they're adorable.

"Later maybe," Neal says, and sinks down at the end of the table. He isn't quite flashing anyone, but he doesn't seem to have a problem with the amount of thigh he's showing either. Elizabeth thinks he's doing it on purpose, and wonders very very briefly if he'd be as comfortable in the outfit she'd been wearing last night, silk stockings and all. She has to put that thought very far away before it distracts her completely from the present. "Everything I wore here last night is in shambles," Neal is saying, but he's smiling when he says it. "If I put it back on, I'll look like a rumpled, formerly affluent hobo."

Peter laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and passes Neal the finance pages without further comment on the matter. Elizabeth catches Peter eying the bottom edge of Neal's robe again. She pours Neal a cup of coffee, and Neal murmurs thanks as he closes his eyes and inhales the fragrant steam of the Italian Roast.

He doesn't mention it, but she sees him giving Peter a helpless sort of look. The bag of Italian Roast had been living in their cupboard for almost two months, the only tangible outward sign of Peter's quiet kind of cautious optimism. She decides she'll make sure they keep the Italian Roast on hand, and never mind how much it costs. It hurts her a little, the way Neal looks astonished at such a simple, thoughtful thing.

Neal catches her looking, and she gives him a little smile. He smiles back, but he's on automatic.

She doesn't look away, though she does tip her head a little, sympathetic. He's going to have to get used to it. After a moment, his smile firms up and becomes a little wry. He gives a barely-there shrug. Behind his paper, Peter hardly seems to realize anything has happened at all, but Elizabeth doubts he's missing anything.

Peter isn't a man who cares much what others think of him, but it's Neal's business to make people think specific things about him, and it has to be hard for him to know she's looking and seeing what's really there. Peter can see through him, too, and while she's pretty sure Neal knows that, she doubts he understands how deep that goes. Peter finds Neal charming, and there's a good possibility that Neal takes that for granted in the sense that everyone thinks Neal is charming. Neal actively cultivates every aspect of his charm.

But the things Peter actually finds charming, those that he's shared with Elizabeth anyhow, are the way that Neal drinks from Peter's coffee cup without seeming to realize that he's doing it, the way Neal's face lights up when he's done something to substantially help a case and knows it, the way he gets cranky when Peter isn't around for him to harass, how he's a really annoying passenger, the way that he never hesitates to back Peter, even if he isn't sure what Peter is up to, and the way that Peter never, never has to spell things out for Neal. Other things, too, she knows, but those are things she can see for herself, not things Peter has told her. Sometimes Peter doesn't know how to say the things that really matter to him, but she's gotten pretty good at spotting them over the years.

She had known coming into this that there was going to be a period of adjustment. For all three of them, yes, but for Peter and Neal especially. She's already aware of all the ways that she is going to need to both be present to act as a conduit and the ways she's going to have to get out of their way and let them get it out of their systems. She's okay with that. She's happy, and she's an optimist in a way that neither Peter nor Neal have ever had the luxury of being, and this feels so good, so right, that she refuses to believe it's not going to work. She's going to sort it out, when it needs sorting, and in time, it won't need sorting at all. In time, it will sort itself.

Neal reads the finance pages, pausing occasionally to shift or flip a page, and every time he moves the hem of her robe slides a little further up the pale skin of his thigh. He's like Peter, almost hairless, and she'd been completely comfortable with her attraction to him since the very beginning, but actually having him here, in her robe, one knee cocked up to brace his paper on it, is keeping her at a low simmer.

She could, at any moment, turn this into sex. They're men, they're still working on the reality of the fact that they're allowed, and there is some kind of unwritten code, she's pretty sure, that if there is going to be group sex, the girl has to start it. She can't prove it, but that's been her experience. And it isn't that she isn't tempted. But this has to be more than that, this has to be her curled in one chair with her feet in another while she reads true crime novels (now that she's been outed) while Neal and Peter read the paper and squabble over the last of the cream cheese. She wants that, too, and she's not going to undermine those desires just because she wants to slide her hands all the way up under Neal's robe and find out if he's totally natural and just not very hairy, or if the neat thatch of his pubic hair is deliberate. She'd been too busy last night to investigate.

Elizabeth spends most of the next hour resisting the urge to jump on Neal and rub herself all over him, marking him like a cat. She knows it's ridiculous, but she can't help it. And she knows it has to be worse for Peter. Peter is wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt tight enough to show the actual shape of his upper body, something that clings in all the right places, one that Elizabeth hasn't seen in years.

She pretends not to notice. Neal doesn't pretend any such thing, to the point where Peter starts squirming a little under his scrutiny.

It's not like she's immune. She rarely wears bluejeans, and the ones she owns are from college, low-slung and tight enough to show off her ass nicely, and the tank top she's wearing is low enough cut to show off her other assets as well.

Peter reads his paper and drinks his coffee and keeps Neal right at the edge of his vision, never out of sight. Like he needs just that little bit of visual reassurance at all times. After a while, she notices Neal inching closer. When she tries to get a look at his face, Neal gives her a blithe smile, but she's pretty sure he knows exactly what he's doing.

Her chest is warm with affection.

"Quiche?" she asks around 11:30. She's had three cups of coffee, which means she's going to be vibrating later unless she burns off some caffeine, and making lunch will do at least some of that.

"Spinach?" Neal asks hopefully, eyebrows looking cautiously delighted over the top of his paper. Elizabeth has to carefully school her expression and scold herself for picking up Peter's fixation. "Mushrooms? Feta?"

"Perfect," Elizabeth grins, and Neal grins back. He's stunning all the time, but his genuine smile always makes Elizabeth feel a little extra-stunned.

Peter sighs.

Quiche is one of those foods that Peter thinks is weird.

"I'll make duck," Neal says almost nonchalantly, but he's peering at Peter out of the corner of his eye. "For dinner. With that rice you like." He pauses. "Red Velvet Cake," Neal says, a little sing-song.

Peter looks down at his paper, but the corners of his lips are quirked up, and the back of his neck is flushed.

Elizabeth is trying hard not to grin. They are _adorable_. The fact that they probably have no idea makes it _even funnier_.

"Yeah, okay," Peter grumbles. "Make a list," he tells Elizabeth. "I've got to grab our dry cleaning anyway."

Which is, more or less, the code phrase for: I'll be gone a while so you two can talk.

Elizabeth collaborates on the list with Neal. Neal seems a little taken aback at how quickly it all happens, until Peter says, "Today?" less than two minutes later. Then Neal smirks at Elizabeth, and she makes a 'what do you do?' face. Peter scowls at both of them. Peter takes the list and glances over it. "Tomato juice?" he asks.

Neal reaches for his wallet, which is ridiculous considering his current state of undress, and also makes Peter give him a flat, narrow look. "You can buy when we have a slumber party at your house," Peter says a little sharply, but Neal lights up for a few seconds, and Elizabeth is sure his incisive mind has been circling the anklet and the logistics and the fact that he probably isn't going to get everything he really wants all morning. She isn't surprised that he can keep those things off his face, but it makes her a little sad.

She's going to have to teach him how to share his worries.

Neal sits back in his chair and gives Peter a harmless look at the same time that he shifts his left leg slightly, baring another inch of pale inner thigh.

Elizabeth admires the view and the distracting maneuver at the same time. Peter's eyes stutter all the way down the length of Neal's thigh, and then up to his face. Neal deliberately makes his eyebrows contrite, and Peter grins. "You're a pain in the ass," Peter says, but he's still grinning when he turns away to grab his jacket.

He bends and drops a kiss on Elizabeth's mouth and then drops the very same kiss on Neal's, and is out the door thirty seconds later. Neal is looking at the door, and while he isn't touching his mouth or anything else overt, Elizabeth gets the sense that most of Neal's mind is still getting a casual goodbye kiss from Peter.

She aches for him at the same time that she's awash with joy.

Neal probably doesn't understand yet, it probably doesn't feel real, but he's going to be getting hundreds of those kisses, as many as he wants, so he won't always have to be looking like he's just received a gift he isn't sure he deserves.

The door opens again five seconds later, and Peter leans in, his chest braced against the door frame a little. "Don't do anything I haven't seen," he says, looking a little pained, but determined to say it anyway.

Neal's face opens again as he grins, and Elizabeth can feel herself grinning in response, Neal's delight infectious. Peter looks a little more sheepish, but he grins, too, before he ducks out the door.

When Peter is gone, Neal gives Elizabeth a long look. She can see the hint of a smile still curling at his lips, but otherwise he looks a little solemn. He pours himself another cup of coffee, offers to pour for her, and she shakes her head. "This is the part where I confess that I have no idea what I'm doing here, El," he admits.

A little starburst of warmth blooms in her chest.

She hadn't expected him to go first.

She hasn't been worried about finding a balance, not really. But it still helps to know that he's willing to actually ask, that she won't have to cajole or prompt.

"Couch?" she suggests.

Neal looks at it for a long moment, a slight frown drawing down his brows, and Elizabeth spares a moment of amusement that Neal is mistrustful of their couch, but doesn't press. "Floor, then," she says. "Grab the coffee, and I'll get some cushions."

Neal obeys without comment, and Elizabeth goes upstairs and grabs the giant pillows with the shams that live in their closet rather than on their bed, because Peter hates them.

She tosses them on the floor, and they settle tailor style across from each other. Neal has to rearrange her robe to stay decent. Elizabeth toys with the idea of giving it to him. He looks perfectly comfortable in blue silk, even if it's cut for a woman, even if it's about six inches too short. That part is more like a bonus, really.

"God, you're distracting half-dressed," she murmurs, and just lets her eyes roam for a few seconds.

"Sorry?" Neal says, but he's smirking a little, pleased.

"Don't be ridiculous," she tells him, grinning. "I kind of want to make it a rule that you're only allowed to wear my robe whenever you're here."

Neal grins, and she sees some of the tension ease away from his shoulders. "I've never had--" he says, and then looks surprised. She sees him scrambling for a way to finish that sentence that will make that sound a little less vulnerable, and doesn't give him the chance.

"It'll settle," she tells him, not for the first time. "It's going to get less overwhelming. You just have to let it."

Neal nods and takes a drink of his coffee, but he still looks kind of shocky and pale.

"How do you want to do this?" Elizabeth asks. "Peter and I have talked about it, we've got some ideas, but I'm not sure what you're actually asking me. Is it how we're going to pull this off in public, or is it how it's going to work in private?"

Neal lets out a little laugh that is more nerves than amusement, but the look he gives her is serious. "Both. I'm concerned about both. But--" and he looks briefly stunned "--I care more about not screwing this up." He gestures between himself and her and then toward the door Peter had disappeared out of. "I'm not coming at this from the same angle as you and Peter are; my whole life comes from a different angle. I can tell my priorities are out of balance, but I don't know what to do about it." He gives her a steady look. "I'm... I'm _tying_ myself to you, to both of you, and I want that. I'm willing. But it's going to limit me, too, and I'm not sure how that's going to work. I could leave any time I want, El. Peter knows it, knew it from the very beginning. I could cut the anklet and be so far away by the time they started a solid manhunt that I'd be in almost no danger. I've never been entangled like this, not quite, like I am with the two of you. I don't want you to think it means I don't want to be here because of knee-jerk things I do. Those things, the way I've trained myself to think, they keep me safe. I can't even go to the other extreme and totally untrain them. I still work for the FBI, they value those skills. I can't lose them. So I don't know what to do. I don't know how to balance."

Elizabeth touches his bare knee, and only barely manages to restrain herself from sliding her fingertips all he way up his thigh. She reminds herself that this is an important conversation, one Neal probably isn't sure how to have at all, and she can molest Neal later.

"Okay," she says. "Do me a favor and try to put some of the 'balance' concerns aside for a minute. Some of those are going to settle on their own, I think, and we can talk through the ones that don't. But the logistics are things Peter and I have talked about a lot.We aren't going to go into detail without Peter, but there is a general sort of plan."

Neal smiles faintly. "Of course you have a plan," he says quietly, and the curl of his lips is almost entirely for Peter.

Elizabeth smiles, too. "Yeah," she tells him, smiling a little. "Peter is a planner. The details aren't that relevant right now." Neal gives her a dubious look. She arches a brow at him, but otherwise ignores it. "This weekend, you're here working on a case with Peter. You're where you're supposed be. We can't get away with it all the time, but this time it's fine."

"Okay," Neal says simply. A moment later, his eyes widen with something that looks a little like wonder, like revelation.

It hurts her heart a little that such simple trust is like a revelation for him, and she touches his knee again.

"The thing you have to try to remember all the time is that Peter will never put you in danger. There are things we aren't going to be able to have right now, things we all want, because it would put you in danger, but that's not forever. And there are ways to get around some of those things. We're going to get more than you think right now. You aren't on your own anymore. We'll help."

"Okay," Neal says again, and Elizabeth can already see him trying to piece together some kind of effective plan in his head.

"Do that later," Elizabeth says sternly. "I told you, we've got a plan. We can run through the basics when Peter gets back. And right now, that's not really what you're worried about anyway, that's not the question you asked."

Neal gives her a long look. "No," he says slowly. "No, I'm good at plans, too. My biggest worry on that front right now is that I can't stop smiling stupidly every time I look at one of you." He looks sheepish, but Elizabeth is delighted, a hot coil curling in her belly, getting a little wet just knowing it.

And Neal has a sweet cock, a little longer than Peter, not quite as wide, and he knows exactly how to use it. She takes a few seconds to weigh the conversation against the desire to push him on his back and spread the robe out around him and ride him until he squirms and whines and gasps for her. With a sigh, she decides Peter would be really ticked off at missing it.

Neal watches her, smiling a little. She smacks his knee. "Shut up," she says. He spreads his hands to indicate his silence and makes his eyebrows innocent. "Quit that," she laughs. "Now you're just doing it on purpose."

"Peter..." he says, and then pauses for a long moment. "Eyebrows? Really?"

"You should have seen him when he was still fixated on your hands," Elizabeth says wryly.

Neal looks delighted for a few seconds. Then he says, "What about you?"

He isn't fishing for compliments, she understands. He's genuinely curious; it's just Neal. He likes to know things.

Elizabeth tips her head a little. "I don't fixate quite the same way," she says. "And, honestly. It was pretty much a done deal as soon as I understood how deep you already were under Peter's skin." Which, actually, was right around the first time Peter had said Neal's name while he was fucking Elizabeth. She'll tell Neal that, sooner or later, tell him that it wasn't a one-time thing, either, but she's pretty sure doing it right now would just end in sex they aren't supposed to have without Peter yet. Instead, she says, "So all I had for a long time was a picture."

She stands up and rifles through a bureau drawer until she comes up with Neal's file, and shows him the picture. Neal is looking over his shoulder a little, smiling faintly, his jaw a strong, elegant line. She traces the line of his jaw with one finger. "So if it has to be something specific, which it never was, exactly, not for me. It was here." She touches the line of his jaw, the strong hinge, a cheekbone. "For a long time, this was what I had, what I could see. But most of it was Peter. There are people Peter likes, that he respects for doing their jobs well. But you, he admires. It's not the same. You made him work, and Peter _likes_ to have to work to win." She puts the file away and comes back to sit down.

"But when I met you..." She smiles, and can feel her cheeks going pink. "Peter was so flustered the first few days, Neal, all turned around. There were days he came back into the house three or four times in the morning, forgetting things. When you showed up at our door and I met you, you sat down on the couch with your thigh pressed right up against mine, and the look on Peter's face. Like he wanted to have a heart attack right there, like seeing you sitting next to me was such a collision for him. I already knew you set him spinning. I knew. But seeing it like that, and how he smiled whenever you weren't looking, and how you teased him. How it sounded when you laughed, and I could tell it was for real. For Peter. That what he felt for you wasn't one-sided. So... if there has to be any one thing, that's the thing."

Neal stares down into his lap for a few seconds, his fingers laced together. She can see the color on his face, but she doesn't call him on it.

"It's only for us," she says softly. "I only hear you laugh like that for us. It's special, just for us."

The color in Neal's face deepens a little, but he tips his face up to give her a smile that's only barely less bashful than some of those Peter gives her when he doesn't know what else to do.

"I want you to be happy," he says finally, uncertainly. "You and Peter, I want to make you happy. I don't know how to do that, not for real. I could make you both very happy in the short term, and you wouldn't know what hit you when I blew town." He looks so distressed at this idea that Elizabeth touches the corner of his mouth. "I'm selfish. It's a way to defend myself. I don't want to, I don't, but I don't know how to be any other way."

"You know that's not entirely your burden to bear, right?" she asks gently. He gives her a blank look, and she gives him a gentle smile. "It's our job to keep you happy, too, Neal. To make it so you don't want to blow town."

"Oh," Neal says very quietly.

She gives him a brief, soft kiss.

"Even still," he says eventually. "This way, with this, I don't know what I'm allowed to do or want. I could wing it," he tells her, a little pained, a tiny line between his brows like the idea of it _actually_ hurts him. "I'm almost sure I could pull it off, but that's a kind of con. The kind where you insert yourself into a situation and mimic and emulate what you see other people doing. I've been able to do that since I was a kid. But it feels like the wrong way to do this, and I'm not even sure why it feels that way."

"Because that doesn't make you part of something. It just makes it look like you are," Elizabeth tells him gently again. "You don't want to pretend. This can be where you come so you don't have to pretend, Neal." She leans forward and kisses him slowly, nothing like last nights greedy, heated kisses; just her mouth, and he goes sweet and open and tasting a little of coffee and vanilla creamer, his tongue slick against hers, licking at her lower lip, sliding along her tongue again. They aren't touching anywhere else, and he is very very thorough. "If you don't know what you're allowed to do or to want, ask. If there isn't time to ask, do what feels right, and we'll sort it out later."

Neal nods uncertainly; Elizabeth can almost see him trying to decide if he's even capable of asking for what he needs, of being so blatantly known and understood.

"We'll take it slow," Elizabeth murmurs. "Some of it's new to us, too, sweetie. It's never been real like this, for Peter and me. It's been for fun, or for curiosity, a couple of times because we got a little too drunk with a couple of people we liked a little too much." She smirks a little sheepishly. "But you're the only one that matters; you're the only one we ever wanted to _keep_, Neal."

"Maybe it's better that I can't just move in and tie you to the bed," Neal murmurs, only half joking.

"Tie Peter to the bed," Elizabeth says, smirking. "He's a fan."

Neal's eyes glaze over a little. Elizabeth bites her lip to keep from smiling.

"But you're right, it might be better. We'll all still have our own space for a while, so we can adjust. I don't want you to think about it like you're dating us, though, or visiting." She frowns, and bites at her bottom lip. "As long as you want it, this already belongs to you." She makes the same gesture Neal had already made, between the two of them, toward the door to indicate Peter, but she spreads her hands wide, too, indicating everything else, their home, their life. "You don't have to woo us. We are already wooed."

"But it's still going to be work," Neal says, head a little cocked, like he's considering the idea. "I've worked in teams before, on jobs. There's a learning curve. We have to learn to integrate."

Elizabeth smiles a little. "Something like that, sure. And it'll be harder for you." She touches his knee again, a little sad, but only a tiny bit worried. She has faith in Neal's emotional fortitude, and that's what this is really going to take. "Peter and I have been married for ten years. It's going to be hard for you to remember that you're not overstepping or asking too much. We _invited_ you here, Neal. And Peter." She bites her lip again. "I love him, but he's not the best communicator in the world. I speak Peter pretty fluently, and sometimes I still have no idea what he's trying to say."

Neal snorts. "I may be even worse, you know," he says dryly. "You said it last night. There are real problems to my being a habitual liar."

Elizabeth considers that for a long moment. Finally, she asks, "But you've already made that decision, haven't you? You're going to try."

"Yes," he sighs. "I. Yes."

"And you're like Peter," she tells him. "You always work hard; you'll work hard at this, too. We knew you already, we knew who you were. I won't lie to you, Peter has a temper. I do, too, but I'm more of a 'talk it out' angry person. Peter will shout and wave his arms and look furious and wounded at the same time, but he never holds a grudge. It is going to happen. We're going to fight. You can't bolt when that happens. You can't. It'd be like punching Peter right in the heart."

"I get verbally vicious," Neal blurts, as though he can't help himself. He blinks at her for a few seconds, his eyes a little too wide, and then slowly, carefully settles himself down.

That he even let her see that. That he even let her. Elizabeth wants to kiss him and pet him and murmur how much it means, how she understands that it's a kind of miracle, that she'll never force it because she understands that he needs it, that it's his defense against the world and she doesn't want to take away his defenses, but she's so happy that he can show her, even just a little.

"People use what weapons they've got," she murmurs instead. She isn't sure when her hand had settled on his knee again, but she decides to just leave it there for the time being. "We'll try not to hold it against you. And it'll probably get better once you really believe that you don't have to hurt us to defend yourself."

"I don't want to hurt you at all," Neal says, and hides behind his coffee cup for a few seconds. "Elizabeth. I'm not kidding when I say vicious."

"I don't doubt it," Elizabeth says, and she doesn't. Not even for a second. Peter will react as though he's been gut punched, and Elizabeth will probably cry. She doesn't cry easily, not really, but she probably will. At least the first time. "But it's going to happen, and if we all know it right up front, if you already know we know, when it happens you won't feel like you're burning down your life. "

"I almost never come back," Neal says, nearly a whisper. The look he gives Elizabeth is almost expressionless, if it weren't for the deep, haunted look in his eyes. "I never got the knack of it."

"You're already doing it," Elizabeth soothes. "When you escaped from prison the second time, you came _here_, Neal. You already come back to Peter, to _us_. Just don't stop."

Neal thinks about that for a while. Elizabeth tops off her coffee, and then Neal's when he absently tips his cup toward her. Otherwise she leaves him alone to think. She understands that this is going to be an adjustment for her and for Peter, but for Neal, it's more than just a big change or just a careful unlearning of a lifetime of habits; this is the whole course of his life.

"I'm not going to have a talk like this with Peter, am I," he eventually says. It's not a question.

"Peter is going to surprise you," Elizabeth says, smiling and utterly certain of it. "It's going to take him a while. You won't have a conversation exactly like this, no, but you'll have other kinds of talks that you won't believe, even if I tell you."

Neal's eyes flash, intrigued, but he doesn't ask, which makes Elizabeth smile. At least he listens.

"Peter is awful at flirting," she says, and they exchange grins. "And sometimes he needs gentling through things. But he's almost never embarrassed about how he feels. He doesn't pretend not to feel things, even when he isn't sure what he's feeling. It isn't the emotion; it's the execution the can't get a handle on, sometimes."

Neal smiles, a crooked quirk of his mouth that it takes Elizabeth a few seconds to identify. It's fondness. She feels another one of those thrilling little bursts of joy. Peter has cracks in his armor, too, and they have both been peeking in, careful not to let one another know. But this is something Neal had known, at least to some degree, and he thinks it's charming.

She kind of wants to clap her hands with glee.

Then Neal goes still, eyes wide. "Oh my God," he says, sounding shocked. "I'm the emotionally challenged one!"

Elizabeth laughs; she can't help it. Neal gives her a pouty look, eyebrows and all. "No," she says, still laughing a little. "No, you're the emotionally guarded one," she tells him. "Peter is, too, mostly. It comes with your jobs. It's just never applied as much to you, with Peter. The only thing he hid from you really was that he's crazy about you."

Neal doesn't say anything for several seconds. He sits very still, coffee cup cradled carefully between his hands. At rest like this, he's smiling just a little, like it's automatic for him. Elizabeth just waits for him to be done and tries not to think that meaningless little smile isn't just a little bit sad.

Neal had told her himself that he chose his life, that no one tricked him. And it's not like Elizabeth has any real measurement by which to judge. She just knows that Neal's real smiles, the ones he gives to her and to Peter, are so beautiful and brilliant and bright they make all his carefully mannered smiles seem like shoddy reproductions in comparison.

"Peter is deeply romantic," Elizabeth says casually, when Neal is back behind his eyes, watching her, gaze occasionally slipping down to measure her cleavage.

Neal stares at her, not quite disbelievingly, but like he can't quite reconcile that in his head, either.

Elizabeth smiles. "I know. It's like a code you have to work out. He doesn't have any idea how to express it except how he sees it done in the movies or how other people do it, and sometimes he tries it that way, but he knows it isn't the right way. He doesn't really know why, and he probably never will."

"You know, though," Neal says with certainty.

She nods. "I know. But if I tried to explain it to him, he'd see it as some kind of failing in himself instead of just a personality quirk."

"What is it?" Neal asks, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"He's just not built to do it that way. He's private. So he feels it, and doesn't always know what to do about it, but you'll see. He does things. Most of the time he doesn't even know he's doing it. You'll see. It took me a while to figure it out. But it's so sweet and heartfelt that it's impossible to really miss ballroom dancing and fancy restaurants. Although."

She gives Neal a speculative look.

"Having your cake and eating it too?" Neal asks, looking lazily amused.

"Why the hell shouldn't I?" Elizabeth grins. "The point, though, is just let it come when it comes. And in the meantime, if there's something you need from him that you can't figure out how to tell him, tell me. I can probably figure out how to manage it. I've had practice."

Neal nods thoughtfully. "I don't think the romance angle is really going to be a problem. I haven't been married to him for ten years, but I do know him. But. _I'm_ romantic, Elizabeth. I mean. Do I need to limit those impulses to you?"

"No! No, it doesn't bother him. It makes him adorable and bashful, but he likes it, and is all sweet and he'll give you anything, Neal. He wants to." She gives him a small, apologetic smile. "It may be a while for you, sweetie. The two of you are different. The things he'll think you might want are also things he won't have any idea how to pick for you, or if you have four of them already. Just give him some time on this one."

Neal gives her a very serious look. "Peter risked his entire career -- leaving aside everything before I went prison -- to take me on as a consultant. We both know that could have sent us both back to prison together. He never has to make another romantic overture to me for the rest of his life."

"You know that isn't how he sees it," Elizabeth says gently.

Neal looks away.

"We'll fix it," she promises, and means it. "We will."

"You knew as soon as Peter left that we were going to have this conversation," Neal says abruptly, meeting Elizabeth's eyes.

She tips her head a little. "Peter left at least partly so we could have this conversation," she admits. "He has errands, but he knew you and I would talk."

"Why isn't it all three of us?"

Elizabeth gives him a long look, and Neal looks back, studying her face. "Because he trusts me more than he trusts himself to do it, right now. Peter is still raw from last night."

Neal's eyes flicker, a little flash of anger.

"You told him he broke your heart, Neal," Elizabeth says gently. "He sent you to prison and he broke your heart."

Neal looks away completely for the first time, turns his eyes toward the window. A muscle clenches in his jaw. "He did," is all he says, however.

"I know," Elizabeth says sadly. "But you didn't see him, Neal. You didn't see him then. Try to remember, it wasn't just _your_ heart Peter broke."

The muscle in Neal's jaw clenches again, but he says nothing this time.

"He wants you to forgive him," Elizabeth says gently. "But he can't really accept it yet. He still feels like he doesn't deserve it. Like he failed you and hurt you and when he did get you out, he hurt you and hurt you and hurt you until he felt like he could trust you. I don't think that part... I don't think he understood that was hurting you. And how you said it, Neal."

"I," Neal says, and swallows, muscle in his jaw jumping rhythmically now. "I'm not angry. There's nothing to forgive. What else was he supposed to do?"

"Maybe you're not angry," Elizabeth says neutrally. "But that doesn't mean it didn't happen, just like you said last night. Some things take time to heal. Someone has to tend those wounds. Peter wants to, but the only way he knows to do that is to give everything he's got, give you everything you want, all that you can think to ask for, make everything go your way."

"I take it that's not on the agenda for you," Neal asks. His voice is dry, almost normal sounding, but he still isn't looking at her, and there is a brittle undercurrent that makes Elizabeth want to soothe him with her hands in his hair, curl him into her body and just steady him there with her warmth.

But this first. It's important.

"No," she says honestly. "And it's not on Peter's either, really. He knows he isn't being rational about it, so I'm handling it."

"Can you think rationally about it?" Neal asks, meeting her eyes again suddenly, his gaze piercing and perceptive. "You were hurt, too, weren't you? I can't imagine that his hurt didn't hurt you, or that you weren't a little pissed at the guy you'd never even met that hurt him so badly."

"But I know you now," Elizabeth tells him sincerely. "And, yes, I was hurt, and I was angry but I was never confused about who hurt whom, Neal. I knew that Peter's hurt was pretty solidly self-inflicted. But you're still right, I can't think about either one of you rationally. Not really."

Neal's eyes widen faintly, but he doesn't say anything.

"I want things to be right between the two of you with all my heart, and I'll do anything to make it happen." She knows it sounds like a warning, and it is, almost. Peter already knows, and Neal should have the same understanding. "So, not rationally, but I can do it ruthlessly in a way that neither of you are ever going to be able to."

"Ruthlessly?" Neal asks, carefully neutral.

She gives him a small, steely smile. "I'll do anything to make it happen," she repeats.

Neal says nothing for two seconds, looking a little expectant. She sees it when he understands that she isn't going to clarify or qualify that, and he doesn't look surprised, exactly. He cocks his chin a tiny bit, his eyes intent on her face, almost curious. Interested, but wary. She sees it when he decides not to ask, too, and she _is_ surprised, but only for a moment. Then she realizes, with a little thrill, that he believes her absolutely. He has no doubt. Which makes not asking for more information Neal's particular brand of wisdom. He's the sort of man who understands that some things work best without hard and fast rules or plans.

She pauses for a long moment, both of them letting it hang there between them, and then moves on.

"Peter doesn't do anything halfway," she tells Neal softly. If this isn't something Neal doesn't already know about Peter, then he should know. Neal looks into his coffee cup, brows drawn down into a tiny frown. "He never would've asked, never could have. He would never put you in a position that would make you feel coerced. I had to ask, and once I did, it had to be you. It had to be all you, your decision, but before that, you were already _his_ Neal. In the places that matter, in his mind and in his heart. Peter has been invested for years. He's going to let me do this my way because I'm the only one of us with anything like any kind of perspective, and he trusts me to do the right thing for all three of us."

She watches Neal drink his coffee for almost two solid minutes. He glances at her over the rim of his cup a few times, but never long enough to catch her gaze. She doesn't know him like she knows Peter. Peter trusts her to make these decisions for him, to keep him from getting hurt, and probably more importantly to Peter right now, to keep Neal from getting more hurt than he already is. Neal doesn't know Elizabeth that well yet. And he isn't the kind of man that is going to take kindly to being manipulated, even if he's fully aware that it's happening. Even if he consents, he's going to be pricklier and harder to handle than Peter. It doesn't matter. She's totally fine with taking silence as consent, so as long as he doesn't get dressed and walk out, she's going to do just exactly what she thinks needs doing.

"Peter was right," Neal says eventually. The smile he gives her is small, but real. Not room-brightening, but sincere. "You _are_ secretly brimming with evil."

"Tattletale!" Elizabeth exclaims indignantly.

Neal puts his coffee cup down. Elizabeth, purely on instinct, does the same. "Trust me with Peter's heart," he asks plainly. "Just a little. It's increasingly clear that I might as well have been having an affair with your husband for _years_, and the fact that I wasn't previously aware of that doesn't speak all that well of my emotional clarity, but I don't want him to hurt, either. I don't want us to hurt each other. So at the risk of repeating myself, I am _not_ Peter. I communicate very well. You don't have to do this alone, either. Run front man all you want, but I'm fully capable of being an ace in the hole. I know Peter, I know _people_. I can help. Let me."

Elizabeth smiles. "I want your help. We're partners. I don't _want_ to do it alone; if you can help, that's what you're supposed to do. That's what that means."

Neal, like he can't quite help it, leans in and kisses her, sweet brush of coffee flavored lips, his hand cupped carefully along her jaw. "Okay," he whispers. "Thank you." When he pulls back, his smile is wide and genuine, eyes bright and sweet.

He still has his hand on her face when she murmurs, "Peter will be back soon, and there are a couple of more practical things I want to talk to you about." Neal arches a brow, intrigued, and takes a moment to stroke the side of his thumb down her bare throat before he retreats to his own cushion. Just that small touch is enough to send Elizabeth's heart rate skyrocketing. She clears her throat. Neal looks innocently at her.

"Practical?" he reminds her. She scowls at him, but the curve of his lips seems to indicate that he finds her scowl more cute than intimidating. She gets the same look from Peter. Damn it.

"This is... a little weirder," she says finally. "Not in the category of things Peter knows we're probably talking about." She sounds half-guilty even to herself, and makes a face.

"But?" Neal asks speculatively.

"This is just one of those things." She shrugs helplessly. "I don't know how this part works. Talking about each other while one of us isn't around is going to happen sometimes, mostly harmless, or offhand, you know?" Neal nods easily. "But this, I'm not sure. It's personal. They're things you're going to know, most of it probably sooner rather than later, but some of it seems like it might be a good idea for you to know right off the bat."

Neal gives her a long look. "Going to have to trust your judgment on this one," he says finally.

Elizabeth wrinkles her nose a little, then sighs. "We'll just have to see how it works out, I think." She pauses to order her thoughts for a few seconds, conscious of Neal watching her with a little sideways head tilt that conveys interest without expectation. No wonder he's so good at what he does, she thinks absently.

"By now," she says finally, "I think you're clear on the fact that Peter and I are both bisexual. We've done the multiple bedpartner thing before, always together, and the casual sex thing before separately, too. There are some rules, but they aren't important right now. We're going to have our hands full with the three of us for the moment, so we can set aside the rules for a later date. For you, though, because you're you and it could probably actually happen, keep in mind that you are always allowed to do whatever it takes to keep yourself safe and come home in one piece."

"Good to know," Neal says neutrally.

"So," Elizabeth says. "Bisexual, but Peter is generally more interested in men than I am in women. In spite of that, we've had far more women in our bed than men. Peter is finicky, and he told you, he likes to watch, mostly. It's not always like that, and he's had a few men since we've been married, but I don't think he's bottomed in better than twelve years."

Neal blushes. Elizabeth blinks at him, surprised, and then can't quite keep herself from smirking a little.

"I know he's done it; we've talked about it. I know he likes it. But it's been a long time. Some day when we have more time, I'll tell you my theory on how about half of that time can be directly traced back to you."

Neal blushes again, but this time he also gives her a hot, narrow-eyed look. "Christ, Elizabeth," Neal breathes, and has to rearrange her robe to remain decent.

Elizabeth can't quite keep her eyes above his waistline, and can feel her own cheeks heating up as well. "So," she says a little breathlessly. "That answers that question. The other one is, do you bottom, too?"

Neal makes a _sound_, a little helpless needy sound, and Elizabeth stares at him in shock. It might be the most artless sound she's ever heard him make outside of sex, and his face is almost as open, his mouth open, lips a little slick. As she watches, he shoves the heel of his palm against the base of his cock and pushes hard, like he's on the edge of coming just at the _idea_ of Peter fucking him.

"Oh my God," Elizabeth says helplessly. "I can't wait to see you taking it."

Neal bites off a short moan, and twists away so he isn't looking at her, but doesn't move his hand.

Elizabeth abruptly wants to suck his cock so badly her mouth is watering a little. Instead, she spreads her legs and shoves the heel of her own palm against the rough denim at the vee of her thighs.

Neal must see her move out of the corner of his eyes, because he turns back to look at her almost unwillingly, his eyes devouring the way she's riding up against her own hand, the seam of her jeans biting against her clit almost perfectly.

"You ever peg anyone, El?" he asks, his voice a low husk of sound.

Elizabeth gasps soundlessly and shakes her head. "Not a man. Peter was willing, but I never have, and he hasn't in so long, and I won't hurt him." But she can see it in her head, and she wishes she had, now, because, God.

"It's not that hard," Neal whispers silkily. "I'll show you, it's all angle and practice. We'll get you something simple, and you can practice on me."

"Jesus, Neal," Elizabeth whispers, feeling her flush creep down toward her breasts.

Neal gets to his knees, and the tie of the robe had fallen open at some point, because it just hangs loose at his sides, showing him off from throat to thighs. Elizabeth squirms against her hand, and makes no attempt to back away when he knee walks toward her.

"What else?" he murmurs, and pushes his face into her hair to nuzzle at the bite mark on her throat.

"Telling you everything won't be as much fun," she whispers, but wow, is she ever tempted.

"Okay, tell me one more thing, and I'll tell you something," he says, far too agreeably.

"You first," she says, almost panting; he smells like soap and her face wash and some other spicy, masculine smell that she doesn't know.

"I haven't done it in years," he tells her. "Maybe I can't anymore, because it's been a long time. But I used to be able to come without having my cock touched."

"Oh," Elizabeth says, and leans up to bite gently at his collar bone. "Oh my God, I want to see that." And she does, she really, really does. Really. A lot.

"Your turn," Neal reminds her, and licks at the tendon in her neck.

"I like to be bad," she confesses, barely able to make herself say it, even in a whisper. She isn't shy, and she's not ashamed of it, but it's still one of those things she has trouble saying out loud. "So Peter will punish me."

Neal's breath stutters against her throat. "How does he punish you?"

"Spankings," she admits.

Neal hooks his hands under her thighs and drags her into her lap, only wincing a little at the rough fabric of her jeans against his naked cock. "The next spanking you get," he tells her, low and serious, "you're getting while my cock is inside you."

Elizabeth makes a low noise this time, feeling hot and helpless and fierce all at once, because yes, absolutely yes, and that is not something you can do with only two people, and she has no idea why she hadn't thought of that already. Neal cups her ass and pulls her in close, running his mouth lightly along the hollow of her throat. "You're a genius," Elizabeth whispers.

"The two of you," Neal whispers to the hollow of her throat. "The two of you, I feel like I've stolen you, and like I never have to steal again because what else is there to steal, El? What else could possibly be worth more?"

His voice is throaty and sincere, and she winds her fingers into his hair and rests her cheek against the top of his head. "Do you want to feel like that? Is it better for you, to feel it like that?" It's something she genuinely wants to know.

"Yeah," he says, and smears his mouth down her chest a little. "I like to steal; I like to have perfect things, and secrets are built into me, part of me. Peter knows. As long as the two of you don't feel... stolen _from_." His arms tighten around her. "I couldn't stand it if you felt like that."

"What if," she whispers, "_we_ stole you? Maybe we're the criminals here. After all, you've suspected for maybe ten weeks. Peter and I have been thinking about this for _years_."

Neal tips his head up to look at her, eyes wide with something Elizabeth can't quite identify.

"Have you ever been stolen?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"You're the most valuable thing we have," she tells him truthfully.

Neal opens his mouth for a moment, and then closes it again and presses his forehead to the base of her throat. When he does finally speak again, what he says is, "How attached are you to this top?"

"Not," she says.

Neal leans, snake quick, and plucks her sewing scissors out of the basket on the coffee table. He cuts a neat little snip through the thicker material at the throat, and then slides the scissors across the table out of the way. Elizabeth watches, flushed hot and wanting, as he catches the material at either side of the tear and slowly, carefully pulls it apart, a long, almost perfectly straight tear with his competent, steady hands. He stops just under her bra, flicks the front closure expertly open one handed, and pulls it out of the way; she cooperates when he slides the shoulder straps down her arms and then pulls the whole things expertly through the arms of her tank top and tosses it aside, baring her breasts.

For a few seconds, she just watches him looking at her. Elizabeth has had her fair share of admirers, Peter included, but Neal has a way, he looks like people look at sculptures in museums, he looks like he can touch with his eyes, and it almost feels like that. She can feel her skin prickling, her nipples hardening, and she shifts a little so his thigh is pressed between her legs, so she can push against the warm, hard muscle without hurting his naked cock. He slings an arm low around her waist, careful of her balance, and flexes up deliberately, pressing against her, making her shiver.

His hands trace the shapes of her shoulders, and he pulls the tank top up in the back so his forearm is pressed against her bare skin.

"I wish you would touch me," Elizabeth tells him sincerely. "I wish you would."

"Just one second," he tells her, and pushes his free hand into her hair, cradling the back of her skull. "I've been wanting to. I want to feel you like this." And he pulls her in, her naked breasts pressed flush against his naked chest, and kisses his way into her mouth sleekly, all silky and gentle, hot, sex-hot, not like earlier this morning, but not like last night either, when they'd both been so needful. This is how Neal kisses when he's seducing, this is how he kisses her like a lady, and she knows it won't be like this all the time, but it's gorgeous and slow and she pushes her hands into his hair and is careful not to pull, just lets the silky strands of it wind around her fingers. He slides his tongue along her bottom lip and traces down her chin and to her throat, barely tipping her back, keeping the warmth of their bodies pressed together. He licks up the line of her jaw and presses a kiss below her ear, kisses the bite he'd left there. "You smell like ginger," he tells her. "I'll never smell it again without thinking of you. I almost can't stand to look at you, El, either of you. I think of how you feel under my hands, I can't help it, and I can't even look at you." He splays his palm and slides it up between her shoulder blades, pulling her tight against his chest. His skin is taut and sleek, and her breasts ache with wanting his hands on them. He slides one hand across her ribs and skates his thumb along the outer curve of her breast.

She feels herself shudder all over, and he bites gently at her mouth; Elizabeth loses all sense of self control entirely and grinds down against his thigh, and he breathes shakily out against her throat. "I make my own luck," he murmurs against her skin, reverent. "Always, I always have. I don't know what to do, having it given to me. I keep thinking you'll come to your senses." His voice is a little thick. "Please don't come to your senses."

Elizabeth abandons his hair and slides her hands under her robe, spans his slim back with her hands. She can feel lithe muscle moving beneath his skin and the way his shoulder blades arc as he moves his hand along the curve of her breast. "My senses know exactly what they're doing," she tells him, and kisses his temple and the line of his jaw and the spot where the muscle had jumped there when he was hurt.

"Don't let Peter..." he almost begs, and then doesn't finish that sentence.

"Peter," she whispers gently, hands in his hair again, "has been waiting a long time with only a tiny, unlikely hope that you'd come to _your_ senses, Neal."

Neal pushes his face into her hair and breathes roughly for a few seconds, shivering in her arms. Elizabeth wants desperately to tell him all the things Peter has ever told her, all the ways that Peter has been so careful, but she couldn't express those things right anyway, couldn't infuse them with the same kind of passion that Peter had bled into every word. She's going to have to leave that up to Peter to convey, knowing it will be hard for Peter, trusting him to do it anyway.

But apparently that's not quite what Neal meant at all. "Don't tell him I'm scared," he whispers almost soundlessly into the cup of her ear. "Don't tell him."

Elizabeth pulls back a little so she can see his face. He looks calm enough, but his eyes are glittery and wary. "You aren't the only one," she tries.

Neal gives her a brief, sad look. "He'll think I don't trust him."

It stops her for several seconds. It hadn't crossed her mind, not like that. They're all scared; what they are doing is monumentally scary. But Neal is probably right. Peter is normally a pretty reasonable guy, but. But.

Well, that so clearly doesn't apply to Neal that she's actually a little annoyed with herself for not already knowing this.

"He'll only think that because he's scared, too, you know that, right?" Elizabeth says finally.

"I know. But he doesn't know that." Neal points it out very gently, like it might hurt her.

It doesn't hurt her. She understands Peter's emotional landscape, and doesn't usually take it personally. She's just a little startled to know how clearly Neal grasps Peter's emotional landscape, and she isn't sure why she should be.

There are a lot of ways to handle this, and maybe things she should bring up. Important things, even, but she doesn't. It won't hurt anyone to keep this in her heart for Neal, and her instincts are urging her toward reassurance and comfort. She doesn't ignore them. "I won't tell him," she says simply, and means it.

He squishes her for a few seconds, arms too tight around her, but she can't bring herself to complain. Instead she waits for his grip to loosen, and then pushes him lightly backward with careful hands. He lets her, doesn't ask when she pushes him onto his back, just watches her with hot eyes roving across her breasts and her face. When she has him laid out, back a little arched over the cushion, the robe spread out lush and blue around him, she lets herself bend over the long, smooth length of his body and put her mouth on him, all the places she was in too much of a hurry to touch last night. His nipples are small and a little pink, sensitive enough that he arches his back when she licks at them, and he makes low, hot sounds when she bites gently. He lets her cradle the slender, corded sides of his neck in her palms, gasps a little when she dips her tongue into his belly button. She runs her hands down his ribs to press the heels of her hands against his hipbones. He pushes his hips up into her grasp, cock jerking a little, and finally lets herself run both hands along the taut, warm skin of his inner thighs. He spreads them for her without her having to ask, and she kisses the inside of one and then the other.

"Does it bother you, having people tell you how pretty you are?" she asks curiously, looking at him all flushed rosy with want, hair mussed, lips a little swollen with kisses. She's a little amazed, a little breathless, because she's been beneath him, too, seen the hard line of his jaw and the flex of his arms and the narrow-eyed want of him that way, which had been in every way masculine. But like this, this way, he _is_ pretty, so pretty and sweet that El feels a twisting, almost painful ache of want between her thighs, that she can take him, so pretty, and he can take her, rough and hard with an arm hooked behind her knee to keep her open for him.

"I _am_ pretty," he says a little wry and a little breathless, and arches his back demonstratively, rocking his hips against her palms gently, his own hands loose curls at his sides.

"Mmm," she agrees, and dips her tongue into his belly button again to make his breath stutter. "But it would still bother most men. It's a guy thing."

"Pretty men are generally viewed as harmless," he tells her. "I use what I've got."

Elizabeth curls a hand around his very pretty cock, and he pushes up into her fist, gasping softly, hips twisting in unashamed pleasure. "You've got a lot," she tells him wickedly, and while he doesn't exactly smile, he manages to give her a smoldering look that is still somehow a little amused.

"I bet you say that to all the pretty boys," he murmurs, and rocks his hips gently even though she isn't moving her hand any more. Using what he's got. She gives him another stroke, hard this time, and his mouth drops open as his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. When she lets go, he lets out a low, discontented noise, and when he opens his eyes again, he is full-on pouting. Anything she'd formerly labeled that expression had been, she understands, a seriously dialed-down version of this. His eyes are huge and pleading, lips curled into a hurt little bow, brows drawn down as though in pain. "El," he murmurs, the pout audible in his voice, a baffled, helpless little whisper.

"Use that on Peter," she murmurs, entirely sincere. "It'll make him insane."

He gives her a faintly amused scowl. "I take it you're immune."

"Not immune, no," she admits. "But it won't do the same thing to me that it will to Peter." She grins, and thumbs open the button on her jeans. Neal loses his smile and just watches, mouth a little wet, while she stands and strips them off. She's glad she went with the thong, just to see the look on his face. She only gets to see it for a moment; then she slides it down and off, shrugs out of the remains of her tank top, and just stands there for him to look at.

He does look, all that attention, eyes tracing the lines of her body with heat and want and that artist's focus that she hadn't had any idea was going to affect her like it does. He doesn't reach for her, and she likes that about him. She left him there like that, all spread open for her, and he stays where she put him, understanding her silent instructions where Peter would've already flipped her onto her back and pressed her down under his solid weight. She likes both, she wants both, and she's going to get to have it. Heat flares in her belly, the prickly kind that feels perfect and illicit at the same time, and she watches him watch her settle down with her legs on either side of his hips.

"Pretty sure this is on the proscribed activities list," Neal murmurs. His fists are clenching a little, but he isn't making any kind of move to stop her.

"Subjective," Elizabeth says. "He's seen us fuck before."

A smile flickers across his face. "Brimming with evil," he murmurs admiringly.

"Don't forget it," she tells him dryly. "The _only_ reason I'm not sucking your cock right now is because Peter really would be pissed to miss that for the first time."

Neal swallows visibly; his cock jumping against the inside of her thigh. Elizabeth runs her hands through his bush. "Do you shave this or are you really so naturally neatly groomed?"

He tips his head a little. "I shave it. It's polite."

She grins, and he smirks a little in response.

"What about you?"

"Electrolysis," she tells him without embarrassment. "Not enough to be totally smooth; that creeps Peter out a little. But enough that I don't have to do daily maintenance, which is honestly some of the best money we ever spent."

Neal is directing his fond smile at her, now. She arches her brows. "You're the practical one," he says, but he sounds grateful, so it's hard to be offended by it.

"I'm the one that's going to ride you in about thirty seconds, so if I were you, I'd be thinking up better adjectives than 'practical'," she tells him.

He doesn't, though. She'd kind of expected a litany of adjectives to follow, but he just looks at her instead, his eyes nearly all pupil, expression artless and wanting. "Do I get to touch?" he asks. She doesn't know exactly what makes him ask, intuition or deduction or just luck, but desire knots so hard in her belly that she has to look away from the decadent sprawl of his body

"No," she says, but kindly. "Just want to have you. Just like this."

"Peter doesn't," he says, an instant leap of logic, but he looks more curious than anything, gaze gleaming with interest.

"Peter doesn't know how," she says, and reaches down between them to catch his cock in her hand. He sucks in a breath, but doesn't move, doesn't even arch up into her hand. She slides the head of his cock along her, letting him feel how wet she is. He shivers but doesn't shift, doesn't move except the quick rise and fall of his chest. "He doesn't know how to be still like this. I knew you would the first time I saw you."

It's true, but she doesn't expect the response she gets. His eyes flutter closed and he licks his lips, and when he opens them again, his eyes are soft and sweet. "You can have whatever you want," he says, simply, earnestly.

Elizabeth lowers herself onto his cock, as slowly as she can manage it, only partly because it's good that way for her. Mostly because Neal tosses his head back, exposing the elegant line of his throat, and gasps out several breaths that hang on the cusps of moans.

"El," he whispers, all acceptance, pleasure, want, and she slides down more, feels her own head tip back as the width of him stretches her hard, that first wet stretch always the best part, the way it feels to be opened completely by someone she cares for, giving and taking in turns. "God," Neal whispers.

She twists her hips, hands braced on his thighs behind her, short, tight little movements, and Neal sucks in several incomplete breaths, little sips of air that the doesn't ever exhale.

"How do you want it?" she murmurs, leaning forward to balance her hands on his ribs. His muscles tremble under her hands, and she realizes for the first time how much will he's exerting to keep still. It sends a heady thrill of power to her brain and to her groin simultaneously.

"However you do," he says immediately. She's only barely got an objection forming when he says, "Not altruism, Elizabeth. Selfish. Want to know this about you, what you want when you can have anything."

She considers that for a few seconds, and then just nods, deciding that's a fair trade.

"Then don't do anything," she says, and slides her right hand down between her thighs to slick two fingers across her clit. Neal makes a low, pained noise, but is absolutely still while she spreads her thighs a little wider and leans forward a little, and works her clit with two fingers while she rides him slow, all the way up, twisting her hips. She can feel herself flushing, knows he's watching everything, loves it, and she's never quite had this. Peter will let her tie him down, but he's still very much an active participant. So is Neal, but it's different; he doesn't fight her, doesn't arch up to get more of anything or give more of anything. His arms are loose at his sides, and he's breathing hard, eyes slitted as he watches, face flushed and mouth wet, but he's not just letting her _run_ the show. He's letting her _be_ the show, letting her use his body without ever giving the impression that he's losing something by doing it, and it's getting her off so hard that she's closer to coming than she would've believed possible in under three minutes.

He doesn't even speak, though she knows he can, remembers things murmured into her ear last night with both of them sprawled across the dining room table. Just watches her like she's the only thing in the room worth watching, the only thing in the world, his eyes sweeping palpable across her skin, so she knows, she can tell where he wants to lick her, bite her, kiss her, all in his eyes like he's not a man who hides ninety percent of who he is from the world. His eyes flicker down to her fingers, wet now, too slick to give her as much friction as she wants, and he opens his mouth slightly without a word. She leans in and slides them between his lips, and his tongue is quick and clever enough to make her shudder all by itself, and she twists her hips down just to feel him groan around them. It takes effort to pull them free, sliding them down the naked skin of his chest to wipe them mostly dry. He licks his lips, and she presses hard against her clit, and she'd be almost embarrassed at how quick it happens, how her back arches and she grinds down onto his cock, except he's watching her like he's unwilling to miss a moment, and it's the only reason she doesn't toss her head back, that she tips her chin down deliberately and lets him watch her face as she comes, body trembling around his cock, hips rocking against her own fingers.

He waits until she mostly settles, and then murmurs, "Again, if you want to. I can hang on for at least one more."

Want tangles at the base of Elizabeth's spine, and she feels herself tighten around Neal's cock, still trapped hot inside her. Neal's chin tips up a little, cords showing in his neck, but otherwise makes no comment on the matter. His hands are loose coils, body a careless sprawl for her to use as she likes, and while she's never done this, quite, never even wanted it, quite, she does now. Now that she knows what it means to have it, with Neal, at least, she does. Not always, but definitely sometimes, and she can't wait to let Peter watch it.

Any other time, she'd probably take advantage of the offer. But Peter will be home any time now, and there's something else she wants.

"Want you to be hard for Peter when he gets here," she breathes, and shifts herself carefully up and off his cock. Neal makes a soft, aching sound, and she can hardly bear to hear it. She's bending over his waist before she considers it and sucking him into her mouth, tasting herself still wet on his shaft. Neal's back bows up and one knee cocks, intuitively understanding that not moving doesn't apply to this, and he pushes one hand carefully into her hair.

"Elizabeth," he gasps, hips rocking gently into her mouth. "Elizabeth."

It takes a great deal of willpower to draw away from the taste of him, the feel of him hot against her tongue, but especially against the helplessness in his tone, the reverence and want.

"Want him to see you like this," she murmurs, and can't quite keep herself from reaching up to muss his hair further. Neal catches her wrist gently between his teeth and worries at the thin skin there. She leans in to whisper in his ear. "If I hadn't stopped him this morning, you'd have woken up with Peter's fingers in your ass. He'd have rolled you on your belly right there, before you were even all the way awake, and had you just like that."

Neal tips his head to look at her, an expression that is half lust and half bewilderment. "Why the hell did you stop him?" he asks, genuinely baffled.

"Want you both to remember exactly," Elizabeth tells him seriously. "It's just a feeling. I know the two of you like your evidence, but it's just a feeling that you should. That you both need to remember exactly, the first time."

"And you think..." Neal says, but he doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence.

The front door opens and Peter comes in carrying several dry cleaning bags and grocery sacks and a few other odds and ends. He tips his head, like he's smelling the air, and Elizabeth isn't the least bit surprised that he can smell the sex they'd just been having. His gaze snaps in their direction, and for a long moment he doesn't say anything. He drapes the dry cleaning bags across the arm of the couch and takes everything else to the dining room table.

Then he turns back toward them, eyes raking over them both. "I knew you were going to start without me," he says, but there's no rancor in it. He is, by turns, staring at Elizabeth's total nudity, and Neal's pale skin, framed in blue silk.

"Brimming with evil," Neal says, but he's smiling when he says it, still sprawled naked and unselfconscious across a cushion on the floor, cock thick and dark red with arousal.

Elizabeth scowls at him, but Peter's lips quirk. "I warned you." But his gaze has hooked on Neal's still erect cock, and seems to have stuck there. "You been teasing, El?" he murmurs, low and tight.

Elizabeth is delighted. She doesn't always want spankings; it's actually pretty occasional. But it would be pointless at this juncture to deny that she wants Neal to see it, find out if he likes it, find out all the things he likes, wonders if Neal has ever had a spanking.

She could explain and get out of it; instead she says, "Only a little."

The look Neal gives her, one brow faintly arched, speaks volumes.

Peter throws her a brief look; it's one she's familiar with. He's sifting through what he wants, trying to prioritize, trying to decide what he wants _now_ and what he's willing to wait for, and he's doing it at the same time that he's trying to do the same for _them_.

Elizabeth can't help her smile. She is a lucky woman. In countless ways.

"I want to see you fuck him," she says, and they both jerk around to stare at her. "I left him hard for you, Peter."

Peter looks at Neal, and Neal, either with intuition or simple want, just spreads his legs and cocks his knees. He doesn't take his eyes off Peter, even when Peter tips his head up to stare at the ceiling, swallowing hard.

"Your wife has a filthy, filthy mouth, Peter," Neal says after a few seconds.

Peter's chin drops and he gives Neal a quirky smile. "I know. And she's so sweet, nobody ever believes me."

Elizabeth gets to her feet and goes to Peter. His arm slides around her waist automatically, and he drops a kiss on her filthy, filthy mouth. "Neal says I can peg him," she tells Peter, and doesn't bother to conceal her excitement at the idea. Peter's arm tightens enough to be uncomfortable for a few seconds, and then he's looking at Neal again, eyes hot.

Elizabeth isn't sure what she had expected, exactly. That it would be frantic, when it happened, was a given. They had both been waiting too long and wanting too much for it to really be any other way.

She doesn't expect Peter to kiss her cheek, set her gently away, and then just fall on Neal, fully clothed, his hands dropping to Neal's thighs to spread him wider. Neal hooks his knees over Peter's thighs and bends up, his hands on the hem of Peter's t-shirt, and Peter gives him three seconds to get it off of him, which wouldn't have been long enough for Elizabeth, but Neal manages is nicely and has enough time left over to put his open mouth on Peter's chest, his hands dragging along the planes of Peter's back.

"Peter," he says, throaty and demanding. "Right now, Peter, right now."

Peter sucks in a harsh breath and drops his hands to the button of his jeans. "Elizabeth, I need--" Peter says, and Neal produces a tube of lube with a flourish.

"Where did you get that?" Peter asks, but he's smiling.

"Thief," Neal says, and drops the tube beside them, his hands joining Peter's on the zipper of his jeans. Elizabeth can't really see who is doing what between them, but it only takes a moment before Peter's cock is tipping into Neal's palm. Peter groans, his head falling back, mouth open and eyes closed, and Neal tightens his grip and strips Peter's cock roughly. "Now," Neal says again, low and demanding, the kind of voice Elizabeth isn't sure she's ever heard him use. "Now, Peter."

Peter catches the back of Neal's head and pushes him back down, and they're kissing again, no sweetness in it, though she knows they both feel it. This is hard and biting, she can see the flash of Neal's teeth and hear Peter groaning into his mouth. Neal slings a leg up around Peter's waist and pushes up against him, cock shoved hard against Peter's belly. Peter slides a hand under Neal's lower back and holds him there, bites Neal's mouth, and then drops his mouth downward to bite at his neck and chest.

Neal jerks his cock up against Peter's skin and throws his head back, lips wet and swollen, flushed from his hairline to his pretty pink nipples. "Now!" he demands again, and Peter bites at one of Neal's nipples. Neal thrashes, but manages to get both hands down to shove at Peter's jeans.

Elizabeth, who is apparently the practical one, manages to tear her eyes away from then long enough to realize that Peter is still wearing his shoes, and takes a moment to divest him of them. Since she's there already, she peels Peter's jeans and underwear down and off his legs as well.

Neal makes a greedy, ecstatic sound and wriggles down to shove his cock up against Peter's, tugging them both into one of his hands. Peter gasps harshly and his hips snap hard against Neal's. Neal wraps his other hand around the back of Peter's neck, and they're kissing again, biting at one anothers mouths, while Neal jerks up frantically against Peter.

Elizabeth watches the hard planes of their bodies shift and shove at one another, and has never seen anything else like it. She's seen Peter with men before, she's seen _that,_ but that had been nothing like this. She and Peter have fucked like this, though never quite so rough. But seeing it, she's sure it will be like this between Neal and Peter for a while. That even though they already have something, they have friendship and love and a partnership that works, this is what will fill the space that's left over, help to close the distance that's been between them for years now.

Peter's fingers dig hard into Neal's hip, and he makes a low, pained sound, but just jerks up harder against Peter, and Peter bites Neal's throat under the hinge of his jaw until Neal is making a hoarse, panting, begging sound. Neal's hand curls around the back of one of Peter's thighs, and he uses that voice again, tight and demanding, almost commanding. "Now, do it now, or I swear to God, Peter, I'll flip you and do it myself."

"Think you can flip me?" Peter growls, but pushes Neal's knee up and fumbles for the lube. Neal finds it unerringly and slaps it into Peter's palm.

"Long enough to get your cock inside me?" Neal murmurs silkily. "Yeah. Yeah, and then you won't be going anywhere."

"Jesus, Neal," Peter whispers, mouthing at Neal's jaw.

Elizabeth can see the wet shine on Peter's fingers, and Neal lifts his knee further and throws a quick glance at Elizabeth, a tiny smirk of invitation. Elizabeth, without quite realizing she's going to do it, drops to her knees so she can see, and they both turn to look at her for a moment. They have the same eyes, hot and wild, but they both pause long enough to watch her slide both hands between her spread thighs.

"Oh, God," Neal moans. "Peter, _please_."

Neal hisses when Peter strokes a finger across his hole, and Peter makes a low sound of want and presses in slowly, carefully, in spite of the way they've been biting and battering at one another. Neal makes a high, whining sound of pleasure, and Peter makes a quieter series of gasps, bending to rest his forehead against Neal's knee. "You," Peter says, "Neal, God." Neal makes a throaty sound of assent, and Elizabeth watches Peter twist his wrist, gentle, careful, until Neal cries out, high and loud, back bowing up. "There you go," Peter says hotly. "Yeah, right there," and does it again.

Neal was already shoving and pushing and jerking, but now he's writhing up into Peter, his hips rocking up, so flushed and mussed and desperate that Elizabeth would do something for him, wants to, but understands that this is one of those times that she's got to let them just obliterate one another. They can handle it; they need it.

She is, however, going to watch and jerk off at the sight of it. It may be the hottest thing she's ever seen happen in real life, and part of that is probably just that she loves them both, but at least some of it is that it's just actually that hot.

"More," Neal begs hoarsely, and Peter doesn't even pause this time. He twists his hand and adds another finger, and Elizabeth scoots down to where she can see them parting the cheeks of Neal's ass and pressing their way inside. Neal makes a grating sound, half-pain, but when Peter moves to draw back Neal clamps a hand around his wrist and snarls, "I _told you_," and twists his hips, pressing deliberately back onto Peter's fingers. "I _told_ you it could hurt a little."

Peter makes a hard noise somewhere deep in his chest, but he doesn't argue with Neal, just presses at the same time that he bends forward and catches Neal's mouth in another one of those bruising kisses. Elizabeth doesn't see what Peter does this time, but Neal shouts into Peter's mouth, jagged pleasure, and Peter murmurs, "Jesus, you're so fucking tight, I, what have you, how..." Peter lets the sentence go, which Elizabeth thinks might be for the best at the moment, though Neal looks so dazed and hot with pleasure that it's possible he wouldn't have been in any shape to consider it anyhow.

"You," Neal whispers. "You."

"Let me, you need," Peter argues in sentence fragments.

"I can take it," Neal assures him, his voice somewhere between silk and steel, and apparently that is going to be enough for Peter. Another time, it might not have been, but this first time, neither of them are capable of restraint, and she isn't going to interfere on this one.

She watches Peter catch the tube and slick up his cock, and Neal tips both knees up nearly to his shoulders, tucking them in against Peter's ribs.

"Come on, come on," Neal demands, and then when Peter brushes the head of his cock against his ass, Neal's head falls back, though his hands are still fisted around Peter's biceps. "Yes," Neal breathes. "I want, give me."

"Neal," is all Peter says in response. His eyes are wide open, staring down at Neal, who is wrecked and flushed and straining under him as he presses his cock slowly into Neal's body. Neal moans roughly, a sound at least partly of pain, and shifts and wraps his legs around Peter's waist before he can get any ideas about retreating.

"Want," Neal says again, low, almost a curse.

"You're still, you're too," Peter says; Elizabeth can see him trying to be the responsible one, but there are beads of sweat on his temples and marks from Neal's mouth scattered across his chest, and in spite of what he's saying, he's still pressing forward and panting harshly, hips rocking just a little in pleasure. "You need more--"

"Peter," Neal says almost angrily, and then adds, gentle and sweet, "Need more of you, need you to fuck me, stop telling me what I need and just give it to me, know how you want it, know it, Peter."

It might not have worked if it had come out an order, but it's a plea instead, and Peter shudders all over, and shifts one knee up for a better angle and just pushes, hard and steady, buries himself in Neal while Neal makes a low, keening noise, hips shuddering up toward Peter as though helpless to resist the attraction of his skin, his cock.

"Oh my God," Neal breathes almost soundlessly, eyes fixed on Peter above him; Peter shifts, eyes closed, breathing hard, and then slides his arms under Neal's knees and lifts him up, hands cupping his ass. "Oh my God," Neal breathes again, "Peter," and Peter tips forward to brace his hands on the floor, and withdraws, slow and careful, and so hot Elizabeth hears herself panting over the sound of Peter's rough breaths.

Peter opens his eyes and looks at Neal, both of them still, an island of peace, a moment, just looking at each other, everything in their eyes that their bodies aren't saying. Peter leans in, bends Neal almost double, to slip his lips along Neal's twice, just brushes, barely even kisses at all, but Neal moans, low and sweet, like he needs that just as badly as the rest of it, and Peter closes his eyes again.

Then he presses back in hard, one long stroke, and Neal lets out a soft yell, and grabs the back of Peter's neck with one hand and Peter's forearm in the other. Elizabeth feels a little faint just _watching_ the width of Peter's cock press Neal open, and any other time she'd get in closer, maybe rub herself against any available body part, maybe, God, maybe ride Neal's face, she would _love_ to get a better look at Neal stretched wide around Peter's cock, but not this time. Next time.

This is for them, and the thing she knows that they can't seem to understand is that _it should be_. The thing she knows that neither of them are willing to consider yet is that there is no such thing as a threesome that functions like an equilateral triangle. The three of them are equal, but they aren't going to all be equal all the time. Any structure that rigid would shatter the first time anything went even the slightest bit wrong. Thems the breaks. They're going to do just fine, and the boys will figure it out, but until then, she's going to have to accept the shifting of planes and angles and manage them so they do as little damage as possible until everyone understands how it's going to work.

This time is just for them, for the way that Neal curls up to bite at Peter's jaw and Peter groans and snaps his hips hard, jerking at Neal's hips at the same time, so Neal falls back, back bowed up and chest heaving, head rocking side to side, and Peter stares at him like he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, like he's utterly astonished to have him spread out beneath him and tight around his cock, and the gratitude and reverence on Peter's face makes Elizabeth want to cry a little, for both of them, for all of them, because she is still the only one of them that can truly believe in it, in her heart, in her head, the only one of them that isn't sure that their happiness will be snatched right out of their grasping, helpless hands.

She will never let that happen.

Peter does something, apparently something good, because Neal shouts and twists helplessly, his hands bunching into fists in the blue silk of the robe. "God, oh, God," Peter snarls, and does it again, and Elizabeth is only a little sad that she can't see what it is because Neal is coming apart right in front of her, all of him, no masks and distractions, just restless, needful heat. He shouts again and bites down on his bottom lip. "Neal," Peter whispers, and Neal makes a sound that is half shout, half wail and arches up, whole body taut and flexing, and comes, shuddering and twisting, across his own belly, cock jerking, and yeah, that is one of the hottest things Elizabeth can imagine. Peter seems to agree; he makes an agonized sound and drags Neal roughly onto his cock, biceps flexing with the force of it, and jerks into him, several rough strokes, twisting Neal's knee up high enough that he can bite Neal while he comes, one of Peter's favorite things to do, marking Neal up as he pumps his come up into him.

Peter, gasping, presses his forehead against Neal's chest and Neal, looking stunned and stoned with pleasure, strokes a hand down the back of Peter's head to cradle his neck in one hand.

Elizabeth comes about ten seconds later, quietly as she can, riding against her fingertips with three fingers inside her, but when she opens her eyes, they're both looking at her anyway. Peter has let Neal's leg down, and Neal has it curled around the back of Peter's thigh. Neal's hand is still on the back of Peter's neck, and Peter is unselfconsciously resting his flushed cheek against Neal's naked chest, both hands still curled gently around Neal's hips.

Elizabeth has never seen that before, either. The only chest she's ever seen Peter rest his cheek against has been her own.

Another low pulse of heat throbs and twists in her belly, but she puts it aside, pulls her hands away. They are both slick and wet, and it doesn't surprise her to see both Neal and Peter focused on that fact. She wipes her hands on her thighs; their eyes track her hands.

Elizabeth smirks.

Peter gives her a faint smile, and slides his hands up to Neal's ribs, like he can't quite bring himself to let go entirely yet. Neal, though, just looks at her, face relaxed into something so sweet and smooth that Elizabeth would call it closer to joy than to mere happiness. Neal's eyes are warm, satiated, his hand still cradling the back of Peter's neck. He is nothing but Neal, she sees. Nothing but Neal, happy.

It goes on a little while, and Elizabeth lets it, holds the handful of moments until Peter starts to look a little uncertain about the whole absolutely content thing, and then she says brightly: "Some day, we'll have sex in an actual bed!"

"Not my fault," Neal says immediately, voice a little hoarse from shouting and deeply, deeply sexy. "Brimming with evil," he defends.

Peter tips his face up to look at Neal, smile bright in his eyes, full on his mouth. "Yeah, yeah. I saw how she had you rendered utterly helpless with an open robe," Peter says dryly.

"She was also naked," Neal points out, and it might have gone on like that, banter not that different than she usually hears them share, but Neal pulls Peter up with the hand on the back of his neck and kisses him deeply, other hand on Peter's face, almost the same kiss he'd given Elizabeth earlier, something designed for seduction, to telegraph want, just a little rougher than the one Neal had given her. "And then she wouldn't let me touch her," Neal murmurs to Peter once he's broken away from his mouth; his innocent look really appallingly effective. "She slipped my cock right up inside her and rode me slow and wouldn't let me touch her." Peter's eyes are dark with amused arousal. "She's really mean."

"Is she?" Peter asks, and gets an elbow up under him so he can look down at Neal. Neal gives him huge, earnest eyes.

"I didn't get to come," Neal tells Peter, looking briefly tragic. "You're my hero, Peter," he adds, looking a little sly now.

"What's my reward?" Peter asks, as though this is a weighty consideration that deserves all of his attention.

"You could fuck me again", Neal suggests. "Flip me over, put me on my knees," He somehow says so with so much innocence that Elizabeth blinks briefly, and Peter looks kind of stunned. "I'm pretty sure El wants a really good look," Neal explains logically. "And I..." He gives Peter a glittery-eyed, look, lips curled into a lazy invitation. "I want to still be feeling it tomorrow at dinner."

"And you say _I'm_ filthy," Elizabeth murmurs. "And just for the record, I wouldn't object to getting a better look, Neal isn't wrong. That was the hottest thing I've ever seen happen in real life."

"You're both filthy," Peter murmurs, sounding momentarily as delighted as Neal often sounds.

"But there will be no more fucking until we've all eaten something," she says firmly, and gets to her feet. She uses a napkin off the table to clean her hands up as best she can, or at least dry them.

Peter sighs and drops his forehead onto Neal's chest. Neal pets his hair comfortingly.

"See," Neal says. "Really mean."

"Super mean," Peter agrees, muffled against Neal's skin.

Elizabeth grins, but her gaze catches on a bag from Victoria's Secret. Curiosity getting the better of her, she tips it up and watches the slither of red silk slide out and puddle on the table. It's a robe. One not all that different than her own, though without the embroidery. She thinks it might be longer, but not by much.

The warm thrum in her chest is almost painful. Peter is a darling, and Neal is going to be beside himself with delight. She couldn't have arranged a better example of Peter's understated, instinctive romanticism if she'd tried.

She doesn't mention it. Let Neal discover it on his own. Let Peter give it to him.

She tucks it back into the bag.

"I think you should've mentioned that she was this despotic," Neal is telling Peter. "I mean, that seems like something I should've been informed of prior to signing on."

Peter lifts his head to look thoughtfully at Neal. "She gives head almost as well as you. Maybe better, at some angles," Peter tells him. "I might have to make a chart or something to keep track."

"Oh, well," Neal says, grinning. "In that case, nevermind."

"Great head trumps despotism," Peter agrees, and pulls carefully back, out of Neal. Neal winces faintly, but otherwise all he does is catch Peter by both arms so he can't get away, drawing him back up the length of Neal's body. Peter goes without a fight, and Elizabeth watches Peter settle on his side and curl his body around Neal's slightly smaller frame. Peter is _cuddling_ Neal and seems to have no idea he's doing it. Another first. Neal, however, looks like he knows exactly what's going on, and is smiling like the cat who got the cream. He tugs Peter's arm down until he can use it for a pillow, and gives Elizabeth a look of such lazy, comfortable pleasure that her heart clenches, and she's with Peter on this one. She hopes to see Neal look like that a lot. Every day, if possible.

"I'm going to take a quick shower," she says, because she wants to give Neal as much opportunity to clandestinely snuggle Peter as Peter will allow. "I'll be quick, and then I'll start on lunch, and the two of you can get cleaned up."

"You have to stay filthy," she hears Peter tell Neal as she goes upstairs. "It's definitely your best look."

"It's not my best look," Neal says wryly. "Withhold judgment on that one until after I ride you."

"Are you even for real?" Peter asks, but his voice is a little muffled, mouth probably buried in the back of Neal's neck, nuzzling at the sweaty hair there.

Elizabeth smiles, her heart glad.


End file.
